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P 11 T S 




BY 


HENRY 


WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
•• 




■WITH 


ILLU 


STRATIONS BY D. HUNTINGTON, 




ENGRAVED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS. 




FOURTH EDITION. 




PHILADELPHIA: 


C A 


REY AND HART. 




184 6. 



^eCi-^ 



EkTERED ACCOHDIKG TO ACT OP CONGRESS, IN THE YEAB 1845, BT CARET & HART, 

IN THE Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastexit District of 
Pexxsvlyania. 



Gift 
Mrs. Henn«n Jennings 
April 26, 1933 



STEREOTYrtn BY t. JOBICSr.K S CO. PKIXTEC BYT. K. & P. O COtUIlS, 



CONTENTS. 



Voices of the Night. page 

Prelude 1'^ 

Hymn to the Night 19 

A Psalm of Life 21 

The Reaper and the Flowers 23 

The Light of Stars 25 

Footsteps of Angels 27 

Flowers 29 

The Beleaguered City 32 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 35 

Ballads. 

The Skeleton in Armor 41 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 50 

Miscellaneous. 

The Village Blacksmith 57 

Endymion 60 

It is not always May 62 

The Rainy Day 64 

God's Acre 65 

To the River Charles 66 

The Goblet of Life 68 

Blind Bartimeus 71 

Maidenhood 73 

Excelsior 76 

The Belfry of Bruges 78 

A Gleam of Sunshine 82 

The Arsenal at Springfield 85 

3 



CONTENTS. 



Page 



Miscellaneous. 

Nuremberg 88 

The Norman Baron 92 

The Day is Done » . 96 

Sea-weed 98 



Earlier Poems. 

An April Day 103 

Autumn 105 

Woods in Winter 107 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem .... 109 

Sunrise on the Hills HI 

The Spirit of Poetry 113 

Burial of the Minnisink 116 

The Spanish Student. 

Act 1 123 

A<=t II 155 

A'^t "1 200 

Translations. 

1. Swedish. 

Children of the Lord's Supper 045 

2. Danish. 

King Christian 268 

The Elected Knight 270 

3. .^nglo Saxon. 

The Grave 073 

4. German. 

The Happiest Land 27,5 

The Wave 077 

The Dead 070 

The Bird and the Ship 279 

Whither? .*.''' 281 

^'"''"''l ^ **!.'.* .'283 

Song of the Boll 2g_ 

The Castle by the Sea 287 



CONTENTS. 



Pago 



Translations. 

The Black Knight 289 

Song of the Silent Land 292 

The Luck of Edenhall 293 

The Two Locks of Hair 296 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door 298 

The Legend of the Cross-bill 299 

The Hemlock Tree 301 

Annie of Tharaw 303 

5. Spanish. 

Coplas de Manrique 305 

The Good Shepherd 327 

To-Morrow 328 

The Native Land 329 

The Image of God 330 

The Brook 331 

6. French. 

Spring 332 

The Child Asleep 334 

7. Italian. 

The Celestial Pilot 335 

The Terrestrial Paradise 338 

Beatrice 340 



Additional Poems. 

Rain in Summer 34.5 

Afternoon in February 350 

Walter von der Vogelweide 352 

The Occultation of Orion 355 

The Bridge 359 

To the Driving Cloud 362 

Carillon 355 

To a Child 369 

To an old Danish Song-book 377 

Drinking Song 3g0 

The old Clock on the Stairs 383 

The Arrow and the Song 387 



CONTENTS. 



Additional Poems. Page 

The Evening Star 388 

Autumn 389 

Dante 390 

The Sea hath its Pearls 391 

Poetic Aphorisms 392 

Money 392 

The Best Medicines 392 

Sin 392 

Poverty and Blindness 393 

Law of Life 393 

Creeds 393 

The Restless Heart 393 

Christian Love 394 

Art and Tact 394 

Retribution 394 

Truth 394 

Rhymes 395 

Curfew 395 



Notes 



401 



LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS, 



DESIGNED BY HUNTINGTON. 



PRECIOSA. 



Engraved by J. Cheney. {To face Title.) 

The Spanish Student. 

LANDSCAPE. 

"-' Engraved by W. H. Dougal. [Title Page.) 

" Or where the denser grove receives 
No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves." 

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. 

V 

Engraved from a drawing by S. W. Cheney. 



LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 
Engraved by W. Humphrys. 



But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone — " 

Voices of the Night, p. 31. 



WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
Engraved by W. H. Dougal. 

" At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 
Lashed close to a drifting mast." 



Ballads, p. 53. 



p. MAIDENHOOD. 

Engraved by J. Cheney. 

" Gazing with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse !" 

Miscdla7ieous Poems, p. 73. 



LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



EXCELSIOR. 

Engraved by W. Humphrys. 



A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 

A banner with the strange device. Excelsior !" 

Miscellaneous Poems, p. 76. 



r" NUREMBERG, DER SCHOEN BRUNNEN. 
Engraved by W. Humphrys. 



" Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art, — 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart. 

Miscellaneous Poems, p. 89. 



AN APRIL DAY. 
Engraved by W. H. Dougal. 



"And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 
And twinkles many a star." 

Earlier Poems, p. 104 



10 LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 



Engraved by W. Htjmphrys. 



When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill 
That overbrows the lonely vale." 

Earlier Poems, p. 107. 



PRECIOSA BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP. 

Engraved by W. Humphrys. 

" May God bless thee, 
And lead thee to a better life. Arise." 

The Spanish Student, p. 164. 



TloTvia, Triri'ia vii^^ 

{mvo66TCipa Tdv iro\mr6i'o}v Pponjv, 

EpcSdicv I'At ■ jidXc n6\e KaTuLTTTepo; 

'Ayajitfiviviov cti i6jiOv ' 

iiro yap d\yict)v, vtt6 tc avuipopa; 

itoixoiicS', oix^neia. 

EURIPIDES. 




vH QA^yw. V\( . ^^^-i^^^J^^ 



VOICES OE THE NIGHT. 



PRELUDE. 



Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low. 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 

Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above. 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 



13 



14 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

"With one continuous sound ; — 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, — 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings. 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by. 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page. 
Traditions of the saint and sage. 
Tales that have the rime of age. 
And chronicles of Eld. 



PRELUDE. 15 



And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride. 

When nestling buds unfold their wings. 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild ; 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child. 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled. 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come, be a child once more !" 

And waved their long arms to and fro. 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar ; 



IQ VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew. 
And where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapour soft and blue. 
In long and sloping lines. 

And falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower. 
The dreams of youth came back again ; 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
" It cannot be I They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 



PRELUDE. 17 



" The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be. 
Not mountains capped with snow. 
Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 
Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

c« There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 

A mighty river roars between. 

And whosoever looks therein 

Sees the heavens all black with sin, — 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 
Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 
We can return no more !' 

3 B 2 



IS V I C E S F T H E N I G H T. 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight. 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 



H Y M X T T II E X I G H T. 19 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all frinsjed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Nidit, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,- 

From those deep cisterns flows. 



20 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 
And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad- winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair. 

The best-beloved Nisfht ! 



APSALMOFLIFE. 21 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEAET OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers. 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



22 



A^OICES OF THE NIGHT. 


In the world's broad field of battle, 


In the bivouac of Life, 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 


Be a hero in the strife ! 


Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 


Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 


Act, — act in the living Present ! 


Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 



Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 23 



THE KEAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 



There is a reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen. 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

« Shall I have naught that is fair ?" saith he ; 
" Have naught but the bearded grain .'' 
TTiough the breath of these flowers is sweet to me 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 



24 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 
These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

0, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
The Reaper came that day ; 

'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 
And took tlie flowers away. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 25 



tHE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armour gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold cifar. 

Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 
4 C 



26 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night 

To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 
And calm and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art 
That readest this brief psalm. 

As one by one thy hopes depart. 
Be resolute and calm. 

fear not in a world like this. 
And thou shalt know ere lonjr. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 27 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered, 
And the voices of the Night 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlour wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted. 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 

Noble longings for the strife, 
By the road-side fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suffering bore. 



28 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me. 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep. 

Comes that messenger divine. 
Takes the vacant chair beside me, 

Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 



Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 



O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 
Such as these have lived and died ! 



FLOWERS. 29 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery. 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation. 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation. 

In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 
c 2 



30 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Of the self-same universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues ; 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers. 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing. 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing. 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing. 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field. 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 




^' 



FLOWERS. 31 



Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoarj^. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers. 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with child-like, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection. 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead. 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound. 
The spectral camp was seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there. 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air. 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when tlie old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 33 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army lied ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light. 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice, nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

5 



34 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star. 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 35 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold. 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling. 

It is a sound of wo, 
A sound of wo ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 

The winds, like anthems, roll ; 
They are chanting solemn masses. 
Singing : " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray,— pray !" 

And the hooded clouds, like friars. 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 

And patter their doleM prayers ; — 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 



86 V I C E S OF T H E N I G H T, 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, — a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day. 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! 0, the old man gray, 

Loveth that ever-soft voice. 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me !" 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from his breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies. 
No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth. 

And the forests utter a moan. 
Like the voice of one who crieth 

In the wilderness alone, 
" Vex not his ghost!" 



MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 37 

Then comes with an awful roar, 

Gathering and sounding on, 
The storm-wind from Labrador, 

The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm- wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 

Sweep the red leaves away ! 
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 

Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast. 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson! 



D 



BALLADS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 



[The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea- 
shore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug 
up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea 
occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, 
generally known hitherto as the Old Wind-Mill, though now claimed 
by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in 
the Menioires de la Societe Roy ale des jlntiquaires du Nord, for 1838 — 1839, 
says : — 

"There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more 
ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which 
belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially 
after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole 
of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate 
until the close of the 12th century; that style, which some authors 
have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round 
arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and 
sometimes Norman architecture. 

"On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments re- 
maining, which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning 
the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found 
of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an 
earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as 
6 D 2 41 



43 BALLADS. 



remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, 
in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern 
architecture, will concur, that this building was ehected at a 
PEnioD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 12th centuht. This remark 
applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the altera- 
tions that it subsequently received; for there are several such altera- 
tions in the upper part of the building, which cannot be mistaken, and 
which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern 
times to various uses, for example as the substructure of a wind-mill, 
and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred 
the windows, the fire-place, and the apertures made above the columns. 
That this building could not have been erected for a wind-mill, is what 
an architect will easily discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well 
established for the purpose of a ballad; though doubtless many an 
honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of 
the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho: "God bless 
me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for 
that it was nothing but a wind-mill ; and nobody could mistake it, but 
one who had the like in his head."] 



"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest 1 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armour drest, 
Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me ?" 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 43 



Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow. 
Came a dull voice of wo 

From the heart's chamber. 



" I was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse ! 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon ; 

And, with my skates fast-bound, 

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 

That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 



44 



BALLADS. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were- wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled. 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 45 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid. 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 
By the hawk frighted. 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chaunting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand. 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 



46 BALLADS, 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly. 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild. 
And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

« Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! — 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand. 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 47 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast. 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hailed us. 



" And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail. 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

" As with his wings aslant. 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 

With his prey laden. 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 



BALLADS. 

<' Three weeks we westward bore, 
_And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to lee- ward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking sea-ward. 



" There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

" Still grew my bosom then. 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men. 

The sun-light hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear. 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful ! 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 49 

" Thus, seamed with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal r 

— Thus the tale ended. 



50 BALLADS. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth. 
And watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor. 
Had sailed the Spanish Main, 

" I pray thee, put into yonder port. 
For I fear a hurricane. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 51 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see !" 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe. 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine. 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's lengdi. 

" Come hither ! come hither! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 
That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar. 

And bound her to the mast. 

" father! I hear the church-bells ring, 
say, what may it be ?" 



52 BALLADS. 

" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" — 
And he steered for the open sea. 

" father ! 1 hear the sound of guns, 

say, what may it be ?" 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea!" 

" father ! I see a gleaming light, 
say, what may it be ?" 
But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 

With his face to the skies. 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow. 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 



•t^'-'-A'-:-^: s^ivwf 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 53 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck. 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the wdiite and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was jfrozen on her breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes ; 



54 BALLADS. 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- weed, 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



MISCELLA?sEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat. 

He earns whate'er he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 
8 57 



58 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chafi* from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 59 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done. 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! ^ 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must he wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burnino; deed and thouo;ht ! 



GO MISCELLANEOUS, 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green. 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 

As if Diana, in her dreams. 
Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this. 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsouo-ht. 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 



E N D Y M I N. 61 



It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

0, weary hearts ! 0, slumbering eyes ! 
0, drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, though unknown. 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if, with unseen wings 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
" Where hast thou stayed so long !" 



62 MISCELLANEOUS, 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

NO HAY PAJABOS EH LOS NIPOS DE ANTANO. 

Spanish Proverb, 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky. 

Where, \vaiting till the west wind blows. 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves. 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest. 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love. 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 



I T I S N T A L W A Y S M A Y. 63 



Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime. 
For ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



64 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall. 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreaiy. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 65 



GOD'S-ACKE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's- Acre ! It is just ; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's- Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again. 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place, where human harvests grow ! 



66 MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 

In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me. Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
And leap onward with thy stream. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 67 

Not for this alone I love thee, 

Nor because thy waves of blue 
From celestial seas above thee 

Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 

Of three friends, all true and tried ; 
And that name, like magic, binds me 

Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers! 

How like quivering flames they start. 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou silent river ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



68 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen. 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of misletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art. 
Is tilled with waters, that upstart. 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart. 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned. 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 69 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers. 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
The wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness. 
Nor prize the colored waters less. 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strengtli they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show. 
How bitter are the drops of woe, 
Witli which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight. 
The blackness of that noonday night. 
He asked but the return of sight. 
To see his foeman's face. 



70 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, LOO, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief. 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, — 
Then sleep we side by side. 



BLINDBARTIMEUS. 71 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth !" 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'l)j(rou, lAjjjfl-ov |Wg / 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee !" 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands?' 
And he replies, " give me light! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!" 
And Jesus answers, "TTruyv 
H TTiffng cov (TitrwKi <r£ / 



72 MISCELLANEOUS, 



Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery. 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

©o6^(re<, iyn^cci, virccyi ! 



/^I 




h,.n"T i. JIP' 



ft Q [® 1 M [HI CO) ® 



MAIDENHOOD. 73 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou \vhose locks outshine the sun. 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem. 
As the river of a dream. 
10 G 



74 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye. 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

0, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares I 

Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 



MAIDENHOOD. 75 



Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart. 
For a smile of God thou art. 



76 MISCELLANEO US. 



EXCELSIOK. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied 
Excelsior ! 




■■ ''^■■ 



EX(D E lL-§ 



EXCELSIOR. 77 



« stay," the maiden said, " and rest 

Thy weary head upon this breast!" 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answered, with a sigh, 

Excelsior ! 

<' Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 

G 2 



7S MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

Ix tlie market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and 

brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er 

the town. 

As the summer-morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I 

stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of 

widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams 

and vapors gray. 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the 

landscape lay. 

At my feet the citj' slumbered. From its chimneys, here 
and there, 

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost- 
like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beatino; in the ancient tower. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 79 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild 

and high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant 

than the sk)-. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden 

times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy 

chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sino^ 

in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a 

friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my 

brain; 
They who live in histor}' only seemed to walk the earth 

again; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — might)' Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of 

old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the 

Fleece of Gold : 



80 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound ; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the 
queen. 

And the armed guard around them, and the sword un- 
sheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold. 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of 
Gold; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving 

west. 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's 

nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror 

smote ; 
And again the loud alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of 

sand, 
" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land !" 



Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's 

roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves 

once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before I was 

aware, 
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined 

square. 



11 



82 MISCELLANEOUS. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

/ The Past and Present here unite 
' Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
I Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends. 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving: boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 
And thy heart as pure as they: 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 83 

One of God's holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet, 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

I 
" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares. 

Of earth and folly born !" 

Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam. 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay. 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful. 

And still I thought of thee. 



g4 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 
Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For in my heart I prayed with him, 
And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart. 
Like pine-trees dark and high, 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh, 

This memory brightens o'er the past. 
As when the sun, concealed 

Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRIN'GFIELD. 85 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no antliem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and drear)-, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
W^ill mingle with tlieir awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus. 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

\^^hich, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer. 
Through Cimbric forest rocirs the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds tlie Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
"VMieels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 
H 



86 MISCELLANEOUS. 



And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, man, with such discordant noises. 
With such accursed instruments as these. 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts. 

Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 87 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace !" 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals. 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



88 MISCELLANEOUS. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, 
stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art 

and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round 

them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough 

and bold. 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth 

rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every 

clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron 

band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's 

hand : 




nj*K E RO ^ '^ 



NUREMBERG. 89 



On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art, — 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the 
common mart ; 

And above cathedral doorways, saints and bishops carved in 

stone. 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age 
their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture 

rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art ; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, tolling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, — but departed, — for the artist never dies. 

12 H 2 



90 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more 

fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed 

its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and 

dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly 
guild. 

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swal- 
lows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic 

rhyme. 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's 

chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers 

of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle 

craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and 

lauffhed. 



NUREMBERG. 91 



But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard 
white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark 

and care. 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique 

chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's 
regard ; 

But thy painter, Albrecht Dilrer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler- 
bard. 

Thus, Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his 
careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the 

soil. 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et 

plus profonde, oii I'interet et I'avarice parlent moins haul que la raison, 

dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de 

mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une 

chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui avail cree tous les hommes a son 

image. 

Thieiiiit: CoNauETE i)E l'Angletehue. 



In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer. 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster. 
From the missal on his knee ; 



THE NORMAN BARON. 93 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing. 
Bells, that, from the neighbouring kloster, 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly. 

Sang the minstrels and the waits. 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chaunted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy. 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a raansrer I 



94 MISCELLANEOUS. 



King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free !" 

And die lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine !" 

In that hour of deep contrition. 
He beheld, with clearer vision. 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth woie no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor. 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal. 
Death relaxed his iron features. 

And the monk replied, "Amen !" 



T H E N O R M A N B A R O N. 95 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages. 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



96 MISCELLANEOUS, 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist ; 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Throuo;h the corridors of Time. 



T H E D A Y I S D O N E. 97 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor. 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled mth music. 

And the cares, that infest the day. 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 
13 I 



9S MISCELLANEOUS. 



SEAWEED. 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges. 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 



Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-ofT isles enchanted. 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavour 

That for ever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered. 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 



100 M I S C E L L A >" E U S. 

Ever driiting, drifting, dritting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
TlU at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



EAELIEE rOEXS. 



X2 



EAELIEU POEMS/ 



AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 



* These poems were written for the most part during my college life, 
and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way 
into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and 
precarious existence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed 
their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, 
with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion : " I cannot be 
displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and 
almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and 
safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more 
decorous garb." 

103 



104 EARLIERPOEMS. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born. 
In the bhie lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide. 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side. 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 




in <■" 

-^ b 



u. 



AUTUMN. 105 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird. 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned. 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved. 
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 



106 E A R L I E R P E M S. 

By the wayside a-vreary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A ■winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofe the warbling blue-bird sings. 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds fi"om the threshing-floor the bus}- flail. 



what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



## 



W D S I N W I N T E R. 107 



WOODS IN WINTER. 



When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And througli the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That verb rows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away- 
Through the long reach of desert woods. 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The cr}^stal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide. 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings. 

And voices fill the woodland side. 



108 EARLIERPOEMS. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 

But still wild music is abroad. 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



H Y M X OF THE MORAVIAN NUN S. 109 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head ; 

And the censer burning swung, 

WTiere, before the altar, hung 

The blood-red banner, that with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 

And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, 

Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 

Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 

When the battle's distant wail 

Breaks tlie sabbath of our vale, 

^^^len tlie clarion's music thrills 

To the hearts of tliese lone hills. 

When the spear in conflict shakes, 

And the strong lance shivering breaks. 
K 



110 EARLIER POEMS. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men. 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner! But when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight. 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow. 
By our prayers and many tears. 
By the mercy that endears. 
Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared • 

<< Take thy banner! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. Ill 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 

Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 

And woods were brightened, and soft gales 

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 

The clouds were far beneath me ; — bathed in light. 

They gathered mid- way round the wooded height. 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Like hosts in battle overthrown, 

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance. 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 

Was darkened by the forest's shade. 

Or glistened in the white cascade ; 

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 



112 EARLIER POEMS. 

And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 

The woods were bending with a silent reach. 

Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell. 

The music of the village bell 

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 

Was ringing to the merry shout, 

That faint and far the glen sent out. 

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and heart beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep. 
Go to the woods and hills ! — No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 113 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ; 

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade. 

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, 

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 

With what a tender and impassioned voice 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 

When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 

O'er- riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 

Or M'hen the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 

In mourning-weeds, from out the western gate. 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 

In the green valley, where the silver brook. 

From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods. 

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless 

laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm. 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 

15 K 2 



114 EARLIERPOEMS. 

The silent majesty of these deep woods, 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun. 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, — 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes, — 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, — and mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 

Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft imbodies it, 
Asa bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 115 

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 

Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 

It is so like tlie gentle air of Spring, 

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 

To have it round us, — and her silver voice 

Is the rich music of a summer bird. 

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



ik; earl IE r poems. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives. 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white. 
Around a far uplifted cone, 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes. 
But which the Indian soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand. 
Came winding down beside the wave. 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 117 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
"With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress. 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
With darting eye, and nostril spread. 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 



118 EARLIER POEMS. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Students of Alcald. 
Gentlemen of Madrid. 



Victorian, -> 

Hypolito, j 

The Count of Lara, ^ 

Don Carlos, j 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gipsies. 

Bartolome Roman, A young Gipsy. 

The Padre Cura of Guadarrama. 

Pedro Crespo, Jllcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara's servant. 

Chispa, Victorian's servant. 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, j} Gipsy girl. 

Angelica, Jl poor girl. 

Martina, The Padre Cura's niece. 

Dolores, Preciosa' s maid. 

Gipsies, Musicians, ^-c. 



16 L 121 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. The Count of Lara's chambers. Night. The Count in 
his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with Don Carlos. 

LARA. 

You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos ; 
How happened it ? 

DON CARLOS. 

I had engagements elsewhere. 
Pray who was there ? 

LARA. 

Why, all the town and court. 

The house was crowded ; and the busy fans 

Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies 

Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 

There was the Countess of Medina Cell ; 

The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 

Her Lindo Don Diego ; Doila Sol, 

And Doila Serafina, and her cousins. 

123 



124 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

DON CARLOS. 

What was the play ? 

LARA. 

It was a dull affair ; 
One of those comedies in which you see, 
As Lope says, the history of the world 
Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judg- 
ment. 
There were three duels fought in the first act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 
" 0, I am dead !" a lover in a closet, 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, 
"Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! 

DON CARLOS. 

Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night ? 

LARA. 

And never better. Every footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 

DON CARLOS. 

Almost beyond the privilege of woman ! 

I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 

Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and her face 

As beauteous as a saint's in Paradise. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 125 



LARA. 

May not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 

DON CARLOS. 

Why do you ask ? 

LARA. 

Because I have heard it said this angel fell, 
And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

DON CARLOS. 

You do her wrong ; indeed, you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

LARA. 

How credulous you are ! Why look you, friend. 
There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself, 
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money. 
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

DON CARLOS. 

You forget 
She is a Gipsy girl. 

1.2 



126 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



LARA. 

And therefore won 
The easier. 

DON CARLOS. 

Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I remember 
A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair ; 
And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty. 
The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, 
And smote him in the face ! 

LARA. 

And does that prove 
That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

DON CARLOS. 

It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 
That woman, in her deepest degradation. 
Holds something sacred, something undefiled, ., 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature. 
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! , 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 127 



LARA. 

Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. 

DON CARLOS, (rising.) 

I do not think so. 

LARA. 

I am sure of it. 
But why this haste ? Stay yet a little longer, 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

DON CARLOS. 

'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

LARA. 

Yes ; persuade me. 

DON CARLOS. 

No one so deaf as he who will not hear! 

LARA. 

No one so blind as he who will not see ! 

DON CARLOS. 

And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, 
And greater faith in woman. lExit. 

LARA. 

Greater faith I 
I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another. 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 



128 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

(^Enfer Francisco with a casket.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

FRANCISCO. 

None, my lord. 
She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

LARA. 

Then I will try some other way to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian .'' 

FRANCISCO. 

Yes, my lord ; 
I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

LARA. 

What was he doing there ? 

FRANCISCO. 

I saw him buy 
A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

LARA. 

Was there another like it ? 

FRANCISCO. 

One so like it 
I could not choose between them. 

LARA. 

It is well. 
To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [Exeunt. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 129 



SCENE II. 

A street in Madrid. Enter Chispa, followed by musicians, with a bag- 
pipe, guitars, and other instruments. 

CHISPA. 

Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who 
ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of 
sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his 
cemetery, say I ; and every friar to his monastery. Now, 
here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and 
to-day a gentleman ; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; 
and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot 
sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may 
soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. 
Ay, marrj^' marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? 
It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daugh- 
ter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony 
than the wedding-ring. (T'o the musicians.) And now, gen- 
tlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. 
Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang down your heads. It 
is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. 
Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of 
crickets ; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. 
Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic ; 
for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man 
in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but 
17 



].S0 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall 
not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in 
the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, ac- 
cording with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, 
friend ? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

Geronimo Gil, at your service. 

CHISPA. 

Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Ge- 
ronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

Why so ? 

CHISPA. 

Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unplea- 
sant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I 
have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast 
as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. 
What instrument is that ? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

An Aragonese bagpipe. 

CHISPA. 

Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who 
asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

No, your honor. 

CHISPA. 

J am glad of it. What other instruments have we ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 131 



SECOND AND THIRD MUSICIANS. 

We play the bandurria. 

CHISPA. 

A pleasing instrument. And thou ? 

FOURTH MUSICIAN, 

The fife. 

CHISPA. 

I like it ; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars 
up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And 
you others? 

OTHER MUSICIANS. 

We are the singers, please your honor. 

CHISPA. 

You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing 
mass in the cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make 
but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all 
sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. 
That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. 
It is by the Vicar's skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. 
Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Preciosa's chamber. She stands at the open window. 
PRECIOSA. 

How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranquil moon ! Like thistle-down 



132 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


The 


vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky ; 


And 


sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 


The 


nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 


And hark ! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, 


Answer them from below ! 




SERENADE. 




Stars of the summer night ! 




Far in yon azure deeps, 




Hide, hide your golden hght I 




She sleeps ! 




My lady sleeps ! 




Sleeps ! 




Moon of the summer night ! 




Far down yon western steeps, 




Sink, sink in silver Hght ! 




She sleeps ! 




My lady sleeps ! 




Sleeps ! 




Wind of the summer night ! 




Where yonder woodbine creeps, 




Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 




She sleeps ! 




My lady sleeps ! 




Sleeps ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 133 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

{^Enter Victorian by the balcony,^ 
VICTORIAN. 

Poor, little dove ! Thou tremblest like a leaf! 

PHECIOSA. 

I am SO frightened ! 'T is for thee I tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

VICTORIAN. 

None, my love, but thou. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T is very dangerous ; and when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 

VICTORIAN. 

Since yesterday I've been in Alcald. 
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 
M 



134 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



PRECIOSA. 

An honest thief to steal but what thou givest. 

VICTORIAN. 

And we shall sit together unmolested, 

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, 

As singing birds from one bough to another. 

PRECIOSA. 

That were a life indeed to make time envious! 
I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. 
I saw thee at the play. 

VICTORIAN. 

Sweet child of air ! 
Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair? 

PRECIOSA. 

Ami not always fair ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, and so fair 
That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee. 
And wish that they were blind. 

PRECIOSA. 

I heed them not ; 
When thou art present I see none but thee ! 

VICTORIAN. 

There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 135 



PRECIOSA. 
And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou comest between me and those books too often ! 

I see thy face in every thing I see ! 

The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 

The canticles are changed to sarabands, 

And with the learned doctors of the schools 

I see thee dance cachuchas. 

PRECIOSA. 

In good sooth, 
I dance with learned doctors of the schools 
To-morrow morning. 

VICTORIAN. 

And with whom, I pray ? 

PRECIOSA. 

A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

VICTORIAN. 

What mad jest 
Is this } 

PRECIOSA. 

It is no jest; indeed it is not. 

VICTORIAN. 

Prithee, explain thyself. 

PRECIOSA. 

Why, simply thus. 



136 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 

VICTORIAN. 

I have heard it whispered.' 

PRECIOSA. 

Now the Cardinal, 
Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the Archbishop 
Has sent for me 

VICTORIAN. 

That thou may'st dance before them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youtli into these gray old men ! 
'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Saving one. 
And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 

VICTORIAN. 

The sweetest beggar diat e'er asked for alms ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Dost thou remember 
When first we met ? 

VICTORIAN. 

It was at C&rdova, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 137 

In the cathedral 2;arden. Thou wast sittins: 
Under the orange trees, beside a fountain. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T was Easter-Sunday. .The full-blossomed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 
The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, 
And then anon the great cathedral bell. 
It was the elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 
I never had been happy till that moment. 

VICTORIAX. 

Thou blessed angel ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And when thou wast gone 
I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

VICTORIAN. 

Remember him no more. Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa! 
I loved thee even then, though I was silent ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 

VICTORIAX. 

That was the first sound in the song of love ! 

18 M 2 



138 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 

PRECIOSA. 

That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings ? 

VICTORIAN. 

So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well. 
And from below comes a scarce audible sound. 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 

PRECIOSA. 

I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 
(' I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too sreat ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou little skeptic ! 
Dost thou still doubt ? What I most prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 139 

The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth ; 
What am I ? Why, a pigmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say lovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
' The world of the affections is thy world. 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy. 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart. 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature. 
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven; 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Loving more. 

PRECIOSA. 

I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

VICTORIAN. 

Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of a mountain torrent, 
And still do thirst for more. 



140 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



A WATCHMAN (in the street). 
Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Hear'st thou that cry ? 

PRECIOSA. 

It is a hateful sound, 
To scare thee from me ! 

VICTORIAN. 

As the hunter's horn 
Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray, do not go ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I must away to Alcalii to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

PRECIOSA. 

Fear not ! 
I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. 

VICTORIAN {giving her a ring). 
And to remind thee of my love, take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood. 

PRECIOSA. 

It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 141 

The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 

VICTORIAN. 

What convent of barefooted Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology ? 

PRECIOSA {laying her hand upon his mouth). 

Hush! Hush! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian 

angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 
{He descends by the balcony.) 
PRECIOSA. 

Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe ? 

VICTORIAN (from the garden) . 
Safe as my love for thee ! But art thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I. Pray, shut thy window close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 
PRECIOSA {throwing down her handkerchirf). 
Thou silly child ! Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

VICTORIAN. 

And brinsfs to me 



142 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

PRECIOSA. 

Make not thy voyage long. 

VICTORIAN. 

To-morrow night 
Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star! My star of love, good night! 

PRECIOSA. 

Good night ! 

WATCHMAN {at a distance). 
Ave Maria Purissima ! 

SCENE IV. 

An inn on the road to Alcald. Baltasar asleep on a bench. 
Enter Chispa. 

CHISPA. 

And here we are, half-way to AlcaM, between cocks and 
midnight. Body o' me! what an inn this is! The lights 
out, and the landlord asleep. Hold! ancient Baltasar! 

BALTASAR (waking). 

Here I am. 

CHISPA. 

Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town 
without inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 143 



BALTASAR. 

Where is your master ? 

CHISPA. 

Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped 
a moment to breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses to 
walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky 
as one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, 
you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every 
man stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. 
What have we here ? 

BALTASAR {setting a light on the talk). 

Stewed rabbit. 

CHISPA {eating). 

Conscience of Portalegre ! Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

BALTASAR. 

And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. 

CHISPA {drinking). 

Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to cry wine 
and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino Tinto 
of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. 

BALTASAR. 

I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. 

CHISPA. 

And I swear to you, by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that 
it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the 
hidalgo's dinner, very little meat, and a great deal of table- 
cloth. 



144 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



BALTASAR. 

Ha! ha! ha! 

CHISPA. 

And more noise than nuts. 

BALTASAR. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. 
But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of 
the Pedro Ximenes? 

CHISPA. 

No; you might as well say, " Don't-you- want-some?" to 
a dead man. 

BALTASAR. 

Why does he go so often to Madrid ? 

CHISPA. 

For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in 
love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar? 

BALTASAR. 

I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the tor- 
ment of my life. 

CHISPA. 

What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack? Why, we 
shall never be able to put you out. 

VICTORIAN {without). 

Chispa ! 

CHISPA. 

Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 145 

VICTORIAN. 

Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 

CHISPA. 

Ea! Seiior. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring 
water for the horses. I will pay for the supper, to-morrow. 

lExeunt. 

SCENE V. 

Victorian's chambers at Jlkald. Hypolito asleep in an arm-chair. 
He awakes slowly. 

HYPOLITO. 

I must have been asleep ! ay, sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. sleep, sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find him 
Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

{He plays and sings.^ 

Padre Francisco ! 

Padre Francisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
19 N 



146 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 

Open the door and let her come in, 

I will shrive her from every sin. 

(^Enter Victorian.) 
VICTORIAN. 

Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What do you want of Padre Hypolito .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

Come, shrive me straight ; for, if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and w^on. 

HYPOLITO. 

The same old tale 
Of the old woman in the chimney corner. 
Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my 

child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; so full 
That I must speak. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas ! that heart of thine 
Is like a scene in the old play ; the curtain 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 147 

Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say; 
Those that remained, after the six were burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember 
The Gipsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou meanest Preciosa. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, the same. 
Thou knowest how her image haunted me 
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She's in Madrid. 

HYPOLITO. 

I know it. 

VICTORIAN. 

And I'm in love. 

HYPOLITO. 

And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

VICTORIAN. 

pardon me, my friend, 
If I so long have kept this secret from thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, 



148 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant for us. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas! alas! I see thou art in love. 

Love keeps tlie cold out better than a cloak. 

It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard 

His mass, his olla, and his Doiia Luisa, — 

Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover. 

How speeds thy wooing ? Is the maiden coy ? 

Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; 

Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, 

Ave! cujus calcem dare 
Nee ce7itenni commend are 
Sciret Seraph studio I 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray, do not jest ! This is no time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Seriously enamored ? 
What, ho ! The Primus of Great Alcala' 
Enamored of a Gipsy ? Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou ? 

VICTORIAN. 

I mean it honestly. 

HYPOLITO. 

Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 



THE S P x\ N I S H STUDENT. I49 



VICTORIAN. 

Why not ? 

HYPOLITO. 

She was betrothed to one Bartolome, 
If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

VICTORIAN. 

They quarrelled, 
And so the matter ended. 

HYPOLITO. 

But in truth 
Thou wilt not marry her. 

VICTORIAN. 

In truth I will. 
The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I'll stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 

HYPOLITO. 

If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

VICTORIAN. 

Out upon thee, 
With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray, tell me, 
Is there no virtue in the world ? 
N 2 



150 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



HYPOLITO. 

Not much. 
What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her ? 

VICTORIAN. 

She lies asleep. 
And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, 
The cross she prayed to, e'er she fell asleep. 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams. 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

HYPOLITO. 

Which means, in prose. 
She's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

VICTORIAN. 

0, would I had the old magician's glass 
To see her as she lies in child-like sleep ! 

HYPOLITO. 

And would'st thou venture .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, indeed I would ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word, now'^: 

VICTORIAN. 

\ 



Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 151 

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 

That could we, by some spell of magic, change A 

The world and its inhabitants to stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are in. 

What fearful glances downward might we cast 

Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 

What groups should we behold about the death-bed, 

Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 

What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 

What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 

What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows ! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 

W^hat lovers with their marble lips together ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love. 

That is the very point I most should dread. 

This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left untold. 

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin. 

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 

Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 

Desertest for this Glauce. 

VICTORIAN. 

Hold thy peace ! 



152 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

She cares not for me. She may wed another, 
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 
]Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

HYPOLITO (r/sn?^). 

And so, good night ! Good morning, I should say. ■ 

(Clock strikes three.) 
Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 
Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 
And so, once more, good night ! We'll speak more 

largely 
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 
Get thee to bed, and the magician. Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! [Exit. 

VICTORIAN. 

Good night ! 
But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 
{Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, 
and lays a large book open upon his knees.) 

JMust read, or sit in reverie and watch 

The changing color of the waves that break 

Upon the idle seashore of the mind ! 

Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye ? 

0, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, 

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. I53 

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows 
Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, 
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, 
And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 
I have the wush, but want the will, to act ! 
Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose words 
Have come to light from the swift river of Time, 
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed. 
Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 
From the barred visor of Antiquity 
R.eflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 
As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 
The shapeless masses — the materials — 
Lie everywhere about us. What we need 
Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
Into transparent crj-stal, bright and clear. 
That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 
With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, 
And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 
He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 
And, by the magic of his touch at once 
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine. 
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown. 
It gleams a diamond ! Even thus transformed, 
Rude popular traditions and old tales 
20 



154 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, 
Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 
Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul of man 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ;' 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star. 
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 
Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone. 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes. 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name ! 
(^Gradually sinlcs asleep.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. I55 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. Preciosa's chamber. Morning. Preciosa and Angelica. 
PRECIOSA. 

Why will you go so soon ? Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord's name ? 

ANGELICA. 

The Count of Lara. 

PRECIOSA. 

The Count of Lara? 0, beware that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

ANGELICA. 

You know him, then ! 

PRECIOSA. 

As much 
As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a blemish, 
Beware of him! 



156 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

ANGELICA. 

Alas ! what can I do ? 
I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, 
Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 

PRECIOSA. 

Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 
What is your name ? 

ANGELICA. 

Angelica. 

PRECIOSA. 

That name 
Was given you, that you might be an angel 
To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. 
0, be an angel still! she needs that smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you! I am a poor girl. 
Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own virtue. 
That is the charm which has protected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel. 

ANGELICA {rising). 

I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. 

PRECIOSA. 

Thank me by following it. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. I57 



ANGELICA. 

Indeed I will. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. 

ANGELICA. 

My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. 

PRECIOSA. 

Some other time, then, when we meet again. 
You must not go away with words alone. 

^Gives her a purse.') 
Take this. Would it were more. 







ANGELICA. 






I thank you, lady. 






PRECIOSA. 


No thanks. 


To- 


morrow come to me again. 


I dance to-i 


[light. 


— perhaps for the last time. 


But what I 


gain, 


I promise shall be yours. 


If that can save 


you from the Count of Lara. 






ANGELICA. 


0, my dear 


lady 


! how shall I be grateful 


For so much kindness? 






PRECIOSA. 






I deserve no thanks. 


Thank Heaven, 


not me. 






ANGELICA. 






Both Heaven and you. 










158 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

PRECIOSA. 

Farewell ! 
Remember that you come again to-morrow. 

ANGELICA. 

I will. And may the blessed Virgin guard you, 
And all good angels. lExit. 

PRECIOSA. 

May they guard thee too, 
And all the poor ; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquiiia. 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress, 
And my most precious jewels! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa! 
{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 
CRUZADO. 

Ave Maria! 

PRECIOSA. 

God! my evil genius! 
What seekest thou here to-day ? 



CRUZADO. 



Thyself, — my child 



PRECIOSA. 

What is thy will with me ? 



CRUZADO. 

Gold! gold! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 159 

PRECIOSA. 

I gave thee yesterday ; I have no more. 

CRUZADO. 

The gold of the Busn6, — give me his gold ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I gave the last in charity to-day. 

CRUZADO. 

That is a foolish lie. 

PRECIOSA. 

It is the truth. 

CRUZADO. 

Curses upon thee ! Thou art not my child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not to me ? 
Not to thy father? To whom, then? 

PRECIOSA. 

To one 

Who needs it more. 

CRUZADO. 

No one can need it more. 



PRECIOSA. 



Thou art not poor. 



CRUZADO. 

What, I, who lurk about 
In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes ; 
I, who am housed worse than the galley slave ; 
I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; 



160 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran Cruzado, — 
Not poor! 

PRECIOSA. 

Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what wouldst thou more ? 

CRUZADO. 

The gold of the Busne ! give me his gold ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times ; 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace! 
Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long. 
Thou shalt have more. 

CRUZADO. 

And if I have it not. 
Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food. 
And live in idleness ; but go with me. 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets. 
And wander wild again o'er field and fell ; 
For here we stay not long. 

PRECIOSA. 

What! march again.'' 

CRUZADO. 

Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 161 

I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 

Air! — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, ^ --• 

The feeling of the breeze upon ray face, 

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 

And no walls but the far-off mountain tops. 

Then I am free and strong, — once more myself, 

Beltram Cruzado, Count of the Cal6s! 

PRECIOSA. 

God speed thee on thy march ! — I cannot go. 

CRUZADO. 

Remember who I am, and who thou art ! 
Be silent and obey I Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Roman 

PRECIOSA {with emotion). 
0, I beseech thee! 
If my obedience and blameless life. 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 
I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 

21 o2 



163 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot he undone ! 

CRUZADO. 

child, child, child! 
Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. lExit. 

PRECIOSA. 

Woe is me! 
I have a strange misgiving in my heart! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do. 
Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. 

[Exit. 

SCENE II. 

j1 room in the Archbishop's Palace. The Archbishop and a 
Cardinal seated. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Knowing how near it touched the public morals, 
And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 163 

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. 
All this you know. 

CARDINAL. 

Know and approve. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

And farther, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

CARDINAL. 

I trust for ever, 
It was a cruel sport. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

A barbarous pastime, • 
Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

CARDINAL. 

Yet the people 
Murmur at this; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight occasion. 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 
As Panem et Cir censes w,as the cry, 
Among the Roman populace of old, 
So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 
And therefore have induced your grace to see 
These national dances, ere we interdict them. 
(^Enfer a serva7i(.) 



164 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



SERVANT. 

The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians 
Your grace was pleased to order, wait without. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

(^Enter Preciosa, tvith a mantle thrown over her head. She 
advances slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude.) 

CARDINAL (^aside). 

0, what a fair and ministering angel 

Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 

PRECIOSA (Jtneeling before the Archbishop). 
I have obeyed the order of your grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

May God bless thee, 
And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 

CARDINAL {aside). 

Her acts are modest, and her words discreet ! 
I did not look for this! Come hither, child. 
Is thy name Preciosa? 

PRECIOSA. 

Thus I am called. 

CARDINAL. 

That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father.'' 




(pis[E(nfl(D)§% (8/[EF#ii[E ir&ai ftiKccmm'i] 



■•^m 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 155 



PRECIOSA. 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cal6s. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

I have a dim remembrance of that man ; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael! 

CARDINAL. 

Dost thou remember 
Thy earlier days? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes ; by the Darro's side 
My childhood passed. I can remember still 
The river, and the mountains capped with snow; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd; 
The march across the moor; the halt at noon; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, farther back. 
As in a dream or in some former life, 
Gardens and palace walls. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

'T is the Alhambra, 
Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see thee dance. 

PRECIOSA. 

Your grace shall be obeyed. 



166 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



(^She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and 
the dance begins. The Archbishop and the Cardinal luok on with 
gravity and an occasional frown ; then make signs to each other, • and, 
as the dance continues, become mure and more pleased and excited ; and 
at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud 
vehemently as the scene closes.) 



SCENE III. 

The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. On 
the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening. 
Don Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

DON CARLOS. 

Hola! good evening, Don Hypolito. 

HYPOLITO, 

And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 
I was in search of you, 

DON CARLOS. 

Command me always. 

HYPOLITO. 

Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise? 

DON CARLOS. 

I do; 
But what of that .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

I am that wretched man. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT 167 

DON CARLOS. 

You mean to tell me yours have risen empty ? 

HYPOLITO. 

And amen! said the Cid Campeador. 

DON CARLOS. 

Pray, how much need you ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Some half dozen ounces. 
Which, with due interest 

DON CARLOS {giving his purse). 

What, am I a Jew 
To put my moneys out at usury ? 
Here is my purse. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thank you. A pretty pnrse, 
Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

DON CARLOS. 

No, 't is at your service. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thank you again. Lie there. Saint Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

DON CARLOS. 

But tell me, 
Come you to-day from Alcala ? 



168 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO. 

This moment. 

DON CARLOS. 

And pray, how fares the brave Victorian ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Indifferent well ; that is to say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

DON CARLOS. 

And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 

HYPOLITO. 

In this case very ill. 

DON CARLOS. 

Why so ? 

HYPOLITO. 

For many reasons. First and foremost, 
Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination; 
A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 
And, like a lily on a river floating. 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts! 

DON CARLOS. 

A common thing with poets. But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some woman, 



Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. 

Who is it ? Tell me. 

HYPOLITO. 

Well, it is a woman! 
But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favorite saint 
With gems and gold, until at length she gleams 
One blaze of gloiy. Without these, you know, 
And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 

DON CARLOS. 

Well, well! who is this doll? 

HYPOLITO. 

Why, who do you think ? 

DON CARLOS. 

His cousin Violante. 

HYPOLITO. 

Guess again. 
To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm 
He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. 

DON CARLOS. 

I cannot guess ; so tell me who it is. 

HYPOLITO. 

Not I. 

DON CARLOS. 

Why not? 

22 P 



170 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO {mysteriouiily). 

Why? Because Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! 

DON CARLOS. 

Jesting aside, who is it? 

HYPOLITO. 

Preciosa. 

DON CARLOS. 

Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 

HYPOLITO. 

Did I say she was? 
The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist! I see him yonder through the trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 

DON CARLOS. 

He comes this way. 

HYPOLITO. 

It has been truly said by some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. 
{^Enter Victorian in front.) 
VICTORIAN. 

Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground ! 
These groves are sacred ! I behold thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 171 

At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, 

And is for ever hallowed. 

HYPOLITO. 

Mark him well ! 
See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 

DON CARLOS. 

What ho ! Victorian ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Wilt thou sup with us ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos? 

DON CARLOS. 

At your service ever. 

VICTORIAN. 

How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of? 

DON CARLOS. 

Ay, soft, emerald eyes! 
She has gone back to Cadiz. 

HYPOLITO, 

Jly de ml! 

VICTORIAN. 

You are much to blame for letting her go back. 



172 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 

In evening skies. 

HYPOLITO. 

But, speaking of green eyes, 
Are thine green ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Not a whit. Why so ? 

HYPOLITO. 

I think 
The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 

VICTORIAN. 

No, I am not jealous. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou shouldst be. 

VICTORIAN. 

Why? 

HYPOLITO. 

Because thou art in love, 
And they who are in love are always jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

VICTORIAN. 

Marry, is that all ? 
Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous? 

HY'POLITO. 

Ay, in truth 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 173 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadeL 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed! 
Then he will have his labor for his pains. 

HYPOLITO. 

He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

VICTORIAN. 

How's this, Don Carlos .'' 

DON CARLOS. 

Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 

VICTORIAN. 

Death and damnation! 
I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! lExit. 

HYPOLITO. 

Now what a coil is here ! The Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death. 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 

p 2 



174 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Were nothing to him ! hot-headed youth ! 

But come; we will not follow. Let us join 

The crowd that pours into the Prado. There 

We shall find merrier company ; I see 

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 

And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

Preciosa's chamber. She is sitting, ivith a book in her hand, near a 
table, on which are flowers. Ji bird singing in its cage. The Count 
OF Lara enters behind unperceived. 

PRECIOSA {reads). 
All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so restless! 

(The bird sings.) 
Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day I 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking. 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. I75 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 

More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 

Than one would say. In distant villages 

And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 

The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 

Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 

And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 

Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 

Or who takes note of every flower that dies? 

Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. 

Dolores! 

{Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the Count.) 
Ha! 

LARA. 

Seiiora, pardon me! 

PRECIOSA. 

How's this? Dolores! 

LARA. 

Pardon me 



PRECIOSA. 

Dolores! 

LARA. 

Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting. 

If I have been too bold 

PRECIOSA {turning her hack upon him). 

You are too bold! 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 



176 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



LARA. 

My dear lady, 
First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak' 
'T is for your good I come. 

PRECIOSA (turning toward him with indignation"). 

Begone ! Begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor. 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? 

shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 

As to send jewels here to win ray love, 
And think to buy my honor with your gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn you! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to me ! 
Begone, I say! 

LARA. 

Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

PRECIOSA. 

Because you dare not. 

LARA. 

I dare any thing! 
Therefore beware ! You are deceived in me. 
In this false world, we do not always know 
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. ITT 

We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

PRECIOSA. 

If to this 
I owe the honor of the present visit, 
You might have spared the coming. Havino^ 

spoken, 
Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. 

LARA. 

I thought it but a friendly part to tell you 
What strange reports are current here in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit them ; 
But there are many who, not knowing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 

PRECIOSA. 

There was no need 
That you should take upon yourself the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

LARA. 

Malicious tongues 
Are ever busy with your name. 

PRECIOSA. 

Alas! 
I have no protectors. I am a poor girl. 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
23 



178 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

I give no cause for these reports. I live 
Retired ; am visited by none. 

LAKA. 

By none ? 
0, then, indeed, you are much wronged! 

PRECIOSA. 

How mean you? 

LARA. 

Nay, nay ; I will not wound your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak out! 
What are these idle tales? You need not spare me. 

LARA. 

I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks toward the street, 

And this into the Prado, does it not? 

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, — 

You see the roof there just above the trees, — 

There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, 

That on a certain night, — be not offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent! 

I would not blame you, being young and fair 

(He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger from 
her bosom.') 

PRECIOSA. 

Beware! beware! I am a Gipsy girl! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


179 


Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 




And I will strike ! 




LARA. 




Pray you, put up that dagger. 




Fear not. 




PRECIOSA. 




I do not fear. I have a heart 





In whose strength I can trust. 

LARA. 

Listen to me. 
I come here as your friend, — I am your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your, name 
Spotless as lilies are. Here, on my knees, 
Fair Preciosal on my knees I swear, 
I love you even to madness, and that love 
Has driven me to break the rules of custom. 
And force myself unasked into your presence. 
(Victorian enters behind.') 
PRECIOSA. 

Rise, Count of Lara! That is not the place 
For such as you are. It becomes you not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and humbled ; 
For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman. 



180 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

LARA. 

sweet angel! 

PRECIOSA. 

Ay, in truth, 
Far better than you love yourself or me. 

LARA. 

Give me some sign of this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Nay, come no nearer. 
The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not. Be not deceived! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have. 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and for what? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 181 

What you would most despise. Sir, such love. 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, 
And bids you look into your heart, and see 
How you do wrong that better nature in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

LARA. 

I swear to you, 
I would not harm you ; I would only love you ; 
I would not take your honor, but restore it, 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me. 
As you confess you do, let me thus 
With this embrace 

VICTORIAN (rushing forward). 

Hold! hold! This is too much. 
What means this outrage ? 

LARA. 

First, what right have you 
To question thus a nobleman of Spain? 

VICTORIAN. 

I too am noble, and you are no more! 
Out of my sight! 

Q 



182 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

LARA. 

Are you the master here ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others 
Gives me the right! 

PRECIOSA (to Lara). 

Go! I beseech you, go! 

VICTORIAN. 

I shall have business with you. Count, anon ! 

LARA. 

You cannot come too soon! [Exit. 

PRECIOSA. 

Victorian ! 

we have been betrayed! 

VICTORIAN. 

Ha! ha! betrayed! 
'T is I have been betrayed, not we! — not we! 

PRECIOSA. 

Dost thou imagine 

VICTORIAN. 

I imagine nothing; 

1 see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

PRECIOSA. 

speak not in that tone ! 
It wounds me deeply. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 183 



VICTORIAN. 

'T was not meant to flatter. 

PRECIOSA. 

Too well thou knowest the presence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet I saw thee stand 
And listen to him, when he told his love. 

PRECIOSA. 

I did not heed his words. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed thou didst, 
And answeredst them with love. 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst thou heard all — 



VICTORIAN. 

I heard enough. 

PRECIOSA. 

Be not so angry with me. 

VICTORIAN. 

I am not angiy ; I am very calm. 

PRECIOSA. 

If thou wilt let me speak 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, say no more. 
I know too much already. Thou art false ! 



184 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


I do not like these Gipsy marriages! 


Where is the ring I gave thee ? 


PRECIOSA. 


In my casket. 


VICTORIAN. 


There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it! 


I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 


PRECIOSA. 


I call the Heavens to witness 


VICTORIAN. 


Nay, nay, nay ; 


Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips! 


They are forsworn ! 


PRECIOSA. 


Victorian! dear Victorian! 


VICTORIAN. 


I gave up all for thee ; myself, ray fame. 


My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 


And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on! 


Laugh at my folly with thy paramour. 


And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee. 


Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 


(//e casts her from him and rushes out.) 


PRECIOSA, 


And this from thee ! 


(^Scene closes.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 185 



SCENE V. 

The Count of Lara's rooms. Enter the Count. 
LARA. 

^ There's nothing in this world so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
I 've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 

The fire that I have kindled 

(^Enter Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Good, my lord ; 
He will be present. 

LARA. 

And the Duke of Lermos? 



FRANCISCO. 



Was not at home. 



LARA. 

How with the rest.'' 

FRANCISCO. 

I 've found 
The men you wanted. They will all be there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, tha4'the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 
24 0,2 



18f) THE SPANISH STUDENT, 



LARA. 

Bravely done. 
Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 
Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and 
sword. lExeunt. 

SCENE VI. 

£ retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victorian and Hypolito. 
VICTORIAN. 

shame! shame! Why do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, 
And voices, and familiar sights and sounds 
Cry, "Hide thyself!" what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are wdndows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 

And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Did I not caution thee ? Did I not tell thee 

1 was but half persuaded of her virtue? 

VICTORIAN. 

And yet, Hypolito, w^e may be wrong. 
We may be over-hasty in condemning! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 187 



HYPOLITO. 
And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 

VICTORIAN. 

She does not love him ! 'T is for gold ! for gold ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, but remember, in the public streets 

He shows a golden ring the Gipsy gave him, 

A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

VICTORIAN. 

She had that ring from me ! God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged! The hour is passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Nay, he is no coward ; 
A villain, if thou wnlt, but not a coward. 
I 've seen him play with swords ; it is his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident, 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. 
{Enter Lara, followed by Francisco.) 
LARA. 

Good evening, gentlemen. 

HYPOLITO. 

Good evening. Count. 

LARA. 

I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. 

VICTORIAN. 

Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared? 



188 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

LARA. 

I am. 

HYPOLITO. 

It grieves me much to see this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your swords ? 

VICTORIAN. 

No! none! 
I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard. Sir Count! 

{They fight. Victorian disarms the Count.) 
Your life is mine ; and what shall now withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its account ? 

LARA. 

Strike! strike! 

VICTORIAN. 

You are disarmed ! I will not kill you. 
I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 
(Francisco hands the Count his sword, and Hypolito interposes.) 
HYPOLITO. 

Enough ! Let it end here ! The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. 
Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 189 

Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

LARA. 

I am content. 
I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, something more than that. 

LARA. 

I understand you. 
Therein I did not mean to cross your path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But, had I known tlie girl belonged to you, 
Never would I have sought to win her from you. 
The truth stands now revealed ; she has been false 
To both of us. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, false as hell itself! 

LARA. 

In truth I did not seek her ; she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 

VICTORIAN. 

Say, can you prove this to me ? 0, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into madness! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 



190 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

LARA. 

You shall know all. 
Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not so, 
Francisco ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Ay, my lord. 

LARA. 

If farther proof 
Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray, let me see that ring ! It is the same ! 

{Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.) 
Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust I Count of Lara, 
We both have been abused, been much abused! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. 
I now can see the folly I have done. 
Though 't is, alas! too late. So fare you well! 
To-night I leave this hateful town for ever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell! 

HYPOLITO. 



Farewell, Sir Count. 



[Exeunt Victorian and Hypolito. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 191 



LARA. 

Farewell! farewell! 
Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe ! 
I have none else to fear ; the fight is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

l^Exit with Francisco. 



SCENE VII. 

Ji lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter Cruzado and Bartolome. 
CRUZ ADO. 

And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But where wast 
thou for the most part ? 

BARTOLOME. 

In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. 

CRUZADO. 

And thou bringest nothing back with thee ? Didst thou 
rob no one ? 

BARTOLOME. 

There was no one to rob, save a party of students from 
Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us ; and a jolly 
little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and 
a loaf of bread. 

CRUZADO. 

Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid ? 

BARTOLOMfe. 

First tell me what keeps thee here ? 



192 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

CRUZ ADO. 

Preciosa. 

BARTOLOMfc. 

And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy pro- 
mise ? 

CRUZADO. 

The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The 
girl shall be thine. 

BARTOLOME. 

I hear she has a Busne lover. 

CRUZADO. 

That is nothing. 

BARTOLOMfe. 

I do not like it. I hate him, — the son of a Busne harlot. 
He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must 
stand aside, and wait his pleasure. 

CRUZADO. 

Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When 
the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

BARTOLOMi:. 

Meanwhile, show me her house. 

CRUZADO. 

Come this way. But thou w^ilt not find her. She dances 
at the play to-night. 

BARTOLOMfe. 

No matter. Show me the house. 

[Exeunt. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 19;} 



SCENE VIII. 

The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sottnd of castanets 
behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers Preciosa in the 
attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult ; hisses ,• 
cries of '■^Brava!^^ and '■'■ Jlfuera f^ She falters and pauses. The 
music stops. General confusion. Preciosa faints. 



SCENE IX. 

The Count of Lara's chambers. Lara and his friends at supper. 
LARA. 

So, Caballeros, once more many thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this matter. 
Pray, fill your glasses. 

DON JUAN. 

Did you mark, Don Luis, 
How pale she looked, when first the noise began, 
And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

DON LUIS. 

I pitied her. 

LARA. 

Her pride is humbled ; and this very night 
I mean to visit her. 

DON JUAN. 

Will you serenade her ? 
25 R 



194 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



LARA. 

No music ! no more music ! 

DON LUIS. 

Why not music ? 
It softens many hearts. 

LARA. 

Not in the humor 
She now is in. Music would madden her. 

DON JUAN. 

Try golden cymbals. 

DON LUIS. 

Yes, try Don Dinero ; 
A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 

LARA. 

To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. 
But Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away; for the night wears. 
A health to Preciosa ! 

{They rise and drink.') 
ALL. 

Preciosa. 

LARA {holding up his empty glass). 

Thou bright and flaming minister of Love ! 
Thou wonderful magician ! who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! never more henceforth 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 195 



Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

(^Dashes the goblet down.) 
DON JUAN. 

Ife ! missa est ! 
(^Scene closes.) 

SCENE X. 

Street and s;arden vjall. Night. Enter Crvzkdo and BxnTOhOMK. 
CRUZADO. 

This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is the house 
The window in which thou seest the light is her window 
But we will not go in now. 

BARTOLOME. 

Why not ? 

CRUZADO. 

Because she is not at home. 

BARTOLOMK. 

No matter ; we can wait. But how is this ? The gate 

is bolted. {Sound of guitars and voices in a neighbouring street.) 

Hark ! There comes her lover with his cursed serenade ! 

Hark! 

SONG. 

Good night ! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 



196 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Thine eyes are stars of morning, 
Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 

Good night ! Good night, beloved, 
While I count the weary hours. 

CRUZADO. 

They are not coming this way. 

BARTOLOMfi. 

Wait, they begin again. 

SONG (^coming nearer). 
Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enhghten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Woe be to him, if he comes this way! 

CRUZADO. 

Be quiet, they are passing down the street. 

SONG {dying away). 
The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away Avith the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


197 


BARTOLOME. 




Follow that ! follow that ! Come with me. Puss! 


puss ! 


(^Exeunt, On (he opposite side enter the Count of Lara and gentlemen, 


with Francisco.) 




LARA. 




The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, 




And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. 




Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale 




Yon balcony. How now ? Her light still burns. 




Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 




{Exeunt. Reenter Cruzado and Bartolome.) 




BARTOLOME. 




They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them 


in the 


garden. {Tries the gate.) Bolted again ! Vive Cristo 


' Fol- 


low me over the wall. 




{They climb the wall.) 




SCENE XI. 




1'reciosa's bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, 


in an undress. Dolores watching her. 




DOLORES. 




She sleeps at last ! 




{Opens the window and listens.) 




All silent in the street, 




And in the garden. Hark ! 




PRECIOSA {in her sleep). 




I must go hence ! 




Give me my cloak ! 




h2 





198 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

DOLORES. 

He comes ! I hear his footsteps ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Go tell him that I cannot dance to-night ; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

{^Signal from the garden.) 
DOLORES (From the window). 
Who 's there ? 
VOICE (from below). 

A friend. 

DOLORES. 

I will undo the door. Wait till I come. 

PRECIOSA. 

I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman thus ! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. 
I 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save ! save me ! 

(iS7ie walces.) 
How late is it, Dolores ? 

DOLORES. 

It is midnight. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 199 



PRECIOSA. 

We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. 
{She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.) 
VOICE. 

Muera ! 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

O villains ! villains ! 

LARA. 

So, have at you ! 

VOICE. 

Take that ! 

LARA. 

0, I am wounded I 

DOLORES (^skulling the windoiv). 

Jesu Maria ! 



200 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. ^cross-road through a wood. In the back-ground a distant 
village spire, Victorian and Hypolito, as travelling students, u-iih 
guitars, sitting under the trees. Hypolito ja/ays aiid sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 201 

SONG (continued). 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats, 
Thorns below, and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

VICTORIAN. 

A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. 

HYPOLITO. 

It suits thy case. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed, I think it does 
What wise man wrote it ? 

- HYPOLITO. 

Lopez Maldonadc 

VICTORIAN. 

In truth, a pretty song. 

HYPOLITO. 

With much truth in it. 
I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

VICTORIAN. 

I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
26 



203 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter, 

When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 

A voice within her will repeat my name, 

And she will say, "He was indeed my friend!" 

O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar. 

That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums. 

The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet. 

The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 

And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever 

To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 

I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 

That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 

"With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 

There rises from below a hand that grasps it. 

And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 

Are heard along the shore. 

HYPOLITO. 

And yet at last 
Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 203 

Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health 
To talk of dying. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet I fain would die ! 
To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile and smile. 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

HYPOLITO. 

We shall all be soon. 

\aCT0RIAN. 

It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 

Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as 

strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowino; friend from foe. 



204 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



HYPOLITO. 

Why seek to know ? 
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

VICTORIAN. 

I confess, 
That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wTCtched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat. 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off. 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Yet thou shalt not perish. 
The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star. 
(^Sound of a village bell in the distance. ) 
VICTORIAN. 

Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 

Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 

A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 

Over the red roofs of the cottages, 

And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd. 

Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 205 

And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Amen ! amen ! Not half a league from hence 
The village lies. 

VICTORIAN. 

This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail 

Across the running sea, now green, now blue. 

And, like an idle mariner on the main. 

Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. 

\_Exeuni. 

SCENE II. 

Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. 
A crowd (if villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. 
In front, a group if Gipsies, The bell rings a merrier peal. A 
Gipsy dance. Enter Pancho, followed by Pedro Crespo. 

PANCHO. 

Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves ! 
Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

Keep silence all ! I have an edict here 
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 
Which I shall publish in the market-place. 

Open your ears and listen ! 

s 



206 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

{^Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his cottage.) 
Padre Cura, 
Good day, and pray you hear this edict read. 

PADRE CURA. 

Good day, and God be with you ! Pray, what is it? 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

An act of banishment against the Gipsies ! 
{^Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) 
PANCHO. 

Silence ! 

PEDRO CRESPO (reads). 

"I hereby order and command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers. 
Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds. 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 

PANCHO. 

And if in seventy days you are not gone, 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

( The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing sig7is of fear and discontent. 
Panciio follows.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 207 



PADRE CURA. 

A righteous law I A very righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

I thank you heartily. 

{They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cuba's door. Sound of 
guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which 
fulluws.^ 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things, — 

How came these Gipsies into Spain ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Why, look you ; 
They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants. Sir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gipsies. 
They never marry, never go to mass. 
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, 
They should be burnt. 



208 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

(^Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing.') 
PADRE CUR A. 

And pray, whom have we here ? 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! 

HYPOLITO. 

Good evening, gentlemen ! Is this Guadarrama .'* 

PADRE CURA. 

Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. 

HYPOLITO. 

We seek the Padre Cura of the village ; 

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 

You must be he. 

PADRE CURA. 

I am. Pray, what's your pleasure ? 

HYPOLITO. 

We are poor students, travelling in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 

{Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.) 
PADRE CURA {joyfltUy). 

Ay, know it, and have worn it. 

PEDRO CRESPO (aside). 

Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 
And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant. 

{Exit. 

PADRE CURA. 

Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 209 

HYPOLITO. 
Padre Cura, 
From the first moment I beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man!" 
There is a certain something in your looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man. 
In fine, as one of us. 

VICTORIAN {aside). 

What impudence ! 

HYPOLITO. 

As we approached, I said to my companion, 
"That is the Padre Cura ; mark my words!" 
Meaning your Grace. "The other man," said I, 
" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench. 
Must be the sacristan." 

PADRE CURA, 

Ah ! said you so ? 
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde I 

HYPOLITO. 

Indeed ! you much astonish me ! His air 
Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

PADRE CURA. 

That is true. 
He is out of humor with some vagrant Gipsies, 

27 s 2 



210 THE SPANISH STUDENT, 

Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood. 
There is nothing so undignified as anger. 

HYPOLITO. 

The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

PADRE CURA. 

I pray you ! 
You do me honor ! 1 am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars ; and Emollit moreSy 
JVec sinit esseferos, Cicero says. 

HYPOLITO. 

'T is Ovid, is it not? 

PADRE CURA. 

No, Cicero. 

HYPOLITO. 

Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 

PADRE CURA. 

Pass this way. 
He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. [Exeunt. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 211 



SCENE III. 

A room in the Padre Cura's house. Enter the Padre and Hypolito. 
PADRE CURA. 

So then, Seiior, you come from Alcala. 

I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 

HYPOLITO. 

And left behind an honored name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Geronimo 
De Santillana, at your Honor's service. 

HYPOLITO. 

Descended from the Marquis Santillana ? 
From the distinguished poet? 

PADRE CURA. 

From the Marquis, 
Not from the poet. 

HYPOLITO. 

Why, they were the same. 
Let me embrace you ! some lucky star 
Has brought me hither! Yet once more! — once 

more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 



212 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Will shake his hoary head, and say, " Alas! 
It was not so in Santillana's time !" 

PADRE CUR A. 

I did not think my name remembered there. 

HYPOLITO. 

More than remembered ; it is idolized. 

PADRE CURA. 

Of what professor speak you ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Timoneda. 

PADRE CURA. 

I don't remember any Timoneda. 

HYPOLITO. 

A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow 

O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech 

As rocks o'er riyers hang. Have you forgotten .'' 

PADRE CURA. 

Indeed, I have. 0, those were pleasant days, 
Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends ! 
I 've turned my back on what was then before me 
And the bright faces of my young companions 
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. 
Do you remember Cueva ? 

^ HYPOLITO. 

Cueva? Cueva? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 213 



PADRE CURA. 

Fool that I am ! He was before your time. 
You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 

HYPOLITO. 

I should not like to try my strength with you. 

PADRE CURA. 

Well, well. But I forget ; you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 
{Enter Martina.) 
HYPOLITO. 

You may be proud of such a niece as that. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. (Jside.) 
He was a very great man, was Cicero I 
Your servant, fair Martina. 

MARTINA. 

Servant, sir. 

PADRE CURA. 

This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 

MARTINA. 

'T will be ready soon. 

PADRE CURA. 

And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas 

Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 

Pray you, Senor, excuse me. lExit. 

HYPOLITO. 

Hist! Martina! 



214 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

One word with jou. Bless me! what handsome 

eyes! 
To-day there have been Gipsies in the village. 
Is it not so ? 

MARTINA. 

There have been Gipsies here. 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes, and they told your fortune. 

MARTINA {embarrassed) . 

Told my fortune ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes, yes ; I know they did. Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, — they said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown. 
And him you should not marry. Was it not ? 

MARTINA {surprised). 
How know you that } 

HYPOLITO. 

0, I know more than that. 
What a soft, little hand ! And then they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you. 
And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 
{Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter Victorian, with a letter.) 
VICTORIAN. 
The muleteer has come. 





THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


215 




HYPOLITO. 






So soon .'' 






VICTORIAN. 






I found him 




Sittin 


g at supper by the tavern door. 




And, 


from a pitcher that he held aloft 




His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. 






HYPOLITO. 





What news from Court ? 

VICTORIAN. 

He brought this letter only. {Reads.) 
cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 
That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, 
And thy hand tremble ? 

VICTORIAN. 

0, most infamous! 
The Count of Lara is a damned villain ! 

HYPOLITO. 

That is no news, forsooth. 

VICTORIAN. 

He strove in vain 
To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 



216 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 

She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, 

Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 

Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar, 

She roams a wanderer over God's green earth. 

Housing with Gipsies ! 

HYPOLITO. 

To renew again 
The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil's Diana. 
Redit et Virgo ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Dear Hypolito, 
How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart ! 
I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I 've done her ! 

HYPOLITO. 

beware! 
Act not that folly o'er again. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, folly, 
Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

{Enter the Padre Cura.) 
HYPOLITO. 

Tell us. Padre Cura, 
"Who are these Gipsies in the neighbourhood ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 217 



PADRE CUR A. 

Beltran Cruzado and his crew. 

VICTORIAN. 

Kind Heaven, 
I thank thee ! She is found ! is found again ! 

HYPOLITO. 

7\nd have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa ? 

PADRE CUR A. 

Ay, a pretty girl. 
The gentleman seems moved. 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes, moved with hunger ; 
He is half famished with his long day's journey. 

PADRE CUR A. 

Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits, 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

^ post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of Guadar- 
rama. Enter Chispa, cracking a whip, and singing the Cachucha. 

CHISPA. 

Halloo I Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. 
Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog's life dost thou lead! 1 
thought, when I left my old master Victorian, the student, 
to serve my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman; that 
I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman ; should go to 
28 T 



218 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, 
what can you expect of the friars? But, in running away 
from the thunder, I have run into the lightning. Here I 
am in hot chase after my master and his Gipsy girl. And 
a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was 
hanged on Monday morning. 

(Enter Don Carlos.) 

DON CARLOS. 

Are not the horses ready yet ? 

CHISPA. 

I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. 
IIo ! within there! Horses! horses! horses! (He knocks at 
the gate with his whip, and enter Mosquito, putting on his jacket.) 
MOSQUITO. 

Pray, have a little patience. I 'm not a musket. 

CHISPA. 

Health and pistareens! I 'm glad to see you come on 
aancing, padre ! Pray, what's the news ? 

MOSQUITO. 

You cannot have fresh horses ; because there are none. 

CHISPA. 

Cachiporra ! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I 
look like your aunt ? 

MOSQUITO. 

No ; she has a beard. 

CHISPA. 

Go to ! go to ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 219 

MOSQUITO. 

Are you from Madrid ? 

CHISPA. 

Yes ; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. 

MOSQUITO. 

What 's the news at Court? 

CHISPA. 

Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a coach, 
and have already bought the whip. 

(^Strikes him round (he legs. ) 
MOSQUITO. 

Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

DON CARLOS. 

Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. {Gives money 
to Mosquito.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But 
tell me, has a band of- Gipsies passed this way of late ? 

MOSQUITO. 

Yes ; and they are still in the neighbourhood. 

DON CARLOS. 

And where ? 

MOSQUITO. 

Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama. 

DON CARLOS. [^Exit. 

Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gipsy camp. 

CHISPA. 

Are you not afraid of the evil eye ? Have you a stag's 
horn with vou ^ 



220 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

DON CARLOS. 

Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. 

CHISPA. 

And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under 
one blanket. 

DON CARLOS. 

I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. 

CHISPA. 

Among the Squires ? 

DON CARLOS. 

No ; among the Gipsies, blockhead ! 

CHISPA. 

I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble 
enough on her account. Don't you think so ? However, 
there is no catching trout without wetting one's trousers. 
Yonder come the horses. lExeunt. 



SCENE V. 

7%e Gipsy camp in the forest. Night, Gipsies working at a forge. 
Others playing cards by the fire-light. 

GIPSIES (ai the forge sing). 
On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee? 
O how from their fury shall I flee ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 221 

FIRST GIPSY {playing). 

Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down with 
your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. 

GIPSIES {al the forge sing). 
Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gipsy lassie here, 

And not the Gipsy man. 

FIRST GIPSY {playing). 

There you are in your morocco ! 

SECOND GIPSY. 

One more game. The Alcalde's doves against the Padre 
Cura's new moon. 

FIRST GIPSY. 

Have at you, Chirelin. 

GIPSIES (al the fm-ge si7ig). 
At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gipsy man, 

The Gipsy lassie came. 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 
CRUZADO. 

Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, 
leave play ; listen to your orders for the night. {Speaking to 
the right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by 
the stone cross. 

t2 



232 THE 


SPANISH STUDENT. 






GIPSIES. 




Ay! 


CRUZADO {to ike left). 




And you, by the 


pole with the hermit's head upon it. 

GIPSIES. 




Ay! 


CRUZADO. 




As soon as you 


see the planets are out, in w4th you. 


and 


be busy with the 


ten commandments, under the sly, 


and 


Saint Martin asleep 


. D' ye hear ? 

GIPSIES. 




Ay! 


CRUZADO. 




Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin 


or a 


papagayo, take to 


your trampers. "Vineyards and Dancing 


John" is the word. 


Am I comprehended ? 

GIPSIES. 




Ay! ay! 


CRUZADO. 




Away, then ! 






(^Exeunt severally/. C 


RUZADO walks up the stage, and disappears among 




ike trees. Enter Preciosa.) 






PRECIOSA. 




How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees 




The red light 


of the forge ! Wild, beckoning shadows 


Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 




Rising and bending with the flickering flame, 





THE SPANISH STUDENT. 223 

Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 
(Bartolome rushes in.) 
BARTOLOME. 

Ho! Preciosa! 

PRECIOSA. 

0, Bartolome ! 
Thou here ? 

BARTOLOME. 

Lo ! I am here. 

PRECIOSA. 

Whence comest thou ? 

BARTOLOMfi. 

From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

PRECIOSA. 

touch me not! 
The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 
Upon thy head ! 



224 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

BARTOLOME. 

Ay, and I 've wandered long 
Among the mountains; and for many days 
Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me, 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 

PRECIOSA. 

Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 

BARTOLOME. 

Preciosa ! 
I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak of that no more. I cannot. 
I am thine no longer. 

BARTOLOME. 

0, recall the time 
When we were children ! how we played together, 
How we grew up together ; how we plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I am hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf! 
Fulfil thy promise. 




PRECIOSA. 

'T was my father's promise, 
Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

BARTOLOME. 

False tongue of woman ! 
And heart more false ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Nay, listen unto me. 
I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to live. 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another wife. 
Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from 

thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 
I never sought thy love ; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee. 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart. 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

BARTOLOME. 

For thy dear sake, 
I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 

20 



226 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



PRECIOSA. 

Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

BARTOLOME. 

Come, come "with me. 

PRECIOSA. 

Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

BARTOLOMfi. 

I entreat thee, come ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Away ! It is in vain. 

BARTOLOME. 

Wilt thou not come ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Never ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee ! 
Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. lExit. 

PRECIOSA. 

All'^oly angels keep me in this hour! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is it to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 227 

And be at rest for ever! 0, dull heart, 
Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain! 
{Enter Victorian and Hypolito behind.) 
VICTORIAN. 

'T is she ! Behold, how beautiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

HYPOLITO. 

A woodland nymph ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 

HYPOLITO. 

Be wary. 
Do not betray thyself too soon. 

VICTORIAN (^disguising his voice). 

Hist ! Gipsy ! 
PRECIOSA {aside, with emotion). 
That voice ! that voice from heaven ! speak again ! 
Who is it calls .-' 

VICTORIAN.^ 

A friend. 
PRECIOSA {aside). 

'T is he ! 'T is he ! 
I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 
False friend or true ? 




^«^ 



228 THE SPANISH STUDENT, 



VICTORIAN. 

A true friend to the true ; 
Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you tell fortunes .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. 
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. 

VICTORIAN {putting a piece of gold into her hand). 
There is the cross. 

PRECIOSA. 

Is 't silver ? 

VICTORIAN. 

No, 't is gold. 

PRECIOSA. 

There 's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

VICTORIAN. 

Fie ! the old story ! 
Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 

PRECIOSA. 

^^ You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many marks. 
Shame ! shame ! you have wronged the maid 

who loved you ! 
How could you do it ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 229 



VICTORIAN. 

I never loved a maid ; 
For she I lov^ed was then a maid no more. 

PRECIOSA. 

How know you that ? 

VICTORIAN, 

A little bird in the air 
Whispered the secret. ^ 

PRECIOSA. 

There, take back your gold ! 
Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 
And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 

VICTORIAN (aside). 
How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman, 

When pleading in another's cause her own ! 

That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray, give it me. (Tries in tahe the ring.) 

PRECIOSA. 

No ; never from my hand 
Shall that be taken ! 

"VaCTORIAN. 

Why, 't is but a ring. 
I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such ! 
U 



230 THE SPANISH STUDENT, 



PRECIOSA. 

"Why would you have this ring? 

VICTORIAN. 

A traveller's fancy, 
A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it 
As a memento of the Gipsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

PRECIOSA. 

No, never! never! 
I will not part with it, even when I die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus. 
That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

VICTORIAN. 

How ? dead ? 

l^RECIOSA. 

Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter. 
To prove to him that I was never false. 

VICTORIAN (aside). 
Be still, my swelling heart ! one moment, still ! 
Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, 
And that you stole it. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 2;)1 



PRECIOSA. 

0, you will not dare 
To utter such a fiendish lie ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Not dare ? 
Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee ! 
(^She rushes into his arms.') 
PRECIOSA. 

'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; yes ; my heart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why didst thou 
leave me ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst thou not come 

VICTORIAN. 

I pray thee, do not chide me ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I should have perished here among these Gipsies. 

' VICTORIAN. 

Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy. 
Thou being absent? 0, believe it not! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept. 



332 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 

Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou forgive me ? 

PRECIOSA. 

I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

VICTORIAN. 

I 'm the veriest fool 
That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara 

PRECIOSA. 

That bad man 
Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard— 

VICTORIAN. 

I have heard all. And yet, speak on, speak on! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet incantation. 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart. 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 
{They walk aside.^ 
HYPOLITO. 

All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets. 

All passionate love scenes in the best romances. 

All chaste embraces on the public stage. 

All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 

Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 233 

Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, 
And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Not to-night ; 
For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. 

CHISPA (wilhin). 
What ho ! the Gipsies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 
Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! 

(^Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.) 
VICTORIAN. 

What now ? 
Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been robbed ? 

CHISPA. 

Ay, robbed and murdered ; and good evening to you, 
My worthy masters. 

VICTORIAN. 

Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

CHISPA (/o Preciosa). 

Good news from Court ; good news ! Beltran Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your father. 
But your true father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gipsy. 
30 u 2 



234 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



VICTORIAN. 

Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

CHISPA. 

And we have all 
Been drinking at the tavern to your health, 
As wells drink in November, when it rains. 

VICTORIAN. 

Where is the gentleman .-' 

CHISPA. 

As the old song says. 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

PRECIOSA. 

Is this a dream ? 0, if it be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I 'm not deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gipsy camp ; this is Victorian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream I 

VICTORIAN. 

It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, 

A blissfid certainty, a vision bright 

Of that rare happiness, which even on earth 

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich. 

As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 

And I am now the beggar. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 235 

PRECIOSA (givin:. him her hand). 

I have still 
A hand to give. 

CHISPA {aside). 
And I have two to take. 
I 've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives 

almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's nuts to crack. 
I 've teeth to spare, but where shall I fmd almonds ? 

VICTORIAN. 

What more of this strange story? 

CHISPA. 

Nothing more. 
Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, 
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 
And probably they '11 hang her for the crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 

VICTORIAN. 

No ; let it be a day of general joy ; 

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. 

Now let us join Don Carlos. 

HYPOLITO. 

So farewell, 
The student's wanderino^ life ! Sweet serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 



236 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 

To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 

To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 

Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 

The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 

And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. 



SCENE VI. 

A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer 
crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper 
cigar with Jlint and steel. 

SONG. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 
But come with thy naked feet ; 
, We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a 3Ionk. A shepherd appears on the 
rocks above.) 

MONK. 

Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola! good man ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Ola! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 237 



MONK. 

Is this the road to Segovia ? 

SHEPHERD. 

It is, your reverence. 

MONK. 

How far is it ? 

SHEPHERD. 

I do not know. 

MONK. 

What is that yonder in tlie valley ? 

SHEPHERD. 

San Ildefonso. 

MONK. 

A long way to breakfast. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay, marry. 

MONK. 

Are there robbers in these mountains ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Yes, and worse than that. 

MONK. 

What? 

SHEPHERD. 

Wolves. 

MONK. 

Santa Maria ! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou 
shalt be well rewarded. 



238 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

SHEPHERD. 

What wilt, thou give me ? 

MONK. 

An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 

{They disappear, Ji mounted Contrahandisla passes, wrapped in his cloak, 
ii-iih a gun at his saddle-bov). He goes down the pass singing.') 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my caballo, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, cabalHto mio. 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

(^Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by Victorian, 
Hypolito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on foot, and armed.) 

VICTORIAN, 

This is the highest point. Here let us rest. 

See, Preciosa, see how all about us 

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 

Receive the benediction of the sun ! 

glorious sight ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Most beautiful indeed ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Most wonderful ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 239 



VICTORIAN. 

And in the vale below, 
Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries. 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields. 
And shouted victory ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And which way lies 
Segovia ? 

VICTORIAN. 

At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it ? 

PRECIOSA. 

No, I do not see it. 

VICTORIAN. 

The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. 
There, yonder! 

HYPOLITO. 

'T is a notable old town. 
Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct. 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Rey. 0, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 



240 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, 
Glides at its foot. 

PRECIOSA. 

0, yes ! I see it now, 
Yet rather with my heart, than with mine eyes. 
So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward 

urged 
Against all stress of accident, as, in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, 
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, 
And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea! 

(^She weeps.') 

VICTORIAN. 

gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears! 0, let thy weary heart \ 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. / 

PRECIOSA. 

Stay no longer ! 
My father waits. Methinks I see him there, 
Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street. 
And saying, " Hark I she comes !" father! father! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 241 

{They descend the pass. Chispa remains behind.) 
CHI SPA. 
I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and 
alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I 
neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half 
the time on foot, and the other half walking ; and always 
as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough 
along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may 
happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet 
so bald, that you can see my brains ; and perhaps, after all, 
I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. 
Benedicite ! \^Exii. 

{Jl pause. Then enter Bartolome wildly, as if in pursuit, with a 
carbine in his hand.) 

BARTOLOME. 

They passed this way ! I hear their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet caramillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last ! 

{Fires down the pass.) 
Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! — 0, my God ! 
{The shot is returned, Bautolome falls.) 



31 



TRANSLATIONS. 



I. 0tt)el)lsl 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



FROM BISHOP TEGNER. 



Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the 

village 
Stood gleaming white in the morning's sheen. On the spire 

of the belfry. 
Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of the 

Spring-sun 



Glanc( 


id like the tongues of fire. 


beheld by Apostles afore- 




time. 








Clear 


was the heaven and blue 
crowned with roses. 


, and 


May, with her 


cap 


Stood 


in her holiday dress in the fields 


, and the wind and 




the brooklet 








Murmured gladness and peace, 


God's 


peace ! With 


lips 




rosy-tinted 










x2 




245 





246 TRANSLATIONS. 

Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing 
branches 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf- 
woven arbour 

Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each cross of 
iron 

Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new twined by the hands 
of affection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a fountain among the departed, 

(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished 
with blossoms. 

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the 
hamlet, 

Who on his birth-day is crowned by children and children's 
children. 

So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of 
iron 

Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the swift-chang- 
ing moment, 

While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 

In which the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones 
of heaven. 

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and 
the dust was 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 247 

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted 

benches. 
There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy 

Pavilions* 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the 

church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of 

oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, 

washed with silver. 
Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on of wind-flowers. 
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by 

Hurberg,'' 
Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels 
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of the shadowy leaf- 
work. 
Likewise the lustre of brass, new polished, blinked from the 

ceiling, 
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was 
assembled 

* The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish Lofhyddo-hogtiden, the Leaf- 
huts'-high-lide. 

'' The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his altar- 
pieces iu the village churches. 



348 TRANSLATIONS. 

Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the organ. 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from him his mantle. 
Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one 

voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallln,^ of David's harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its powerful 

pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 
And every face did shine like the Holy One's face upon 

Tabor. 
Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a christianly 

plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy 

winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 
Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative 

grandeur 
Lay on his forehead, as clear as on moss-covered grave-stone 

a sun-beam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 



* A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly reraark- 
abje for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 249 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when 

in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the 

old man ; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of 

silver. 
All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the 

old man 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost 

chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the 
old man. 

Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came. 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the 
desert. 

Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher reentered the 
chancel. 

Followed therein by the young. On the right hand the boys 
had their places, 

Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy- 
blooming. 

But on the left hand of these, there stood the tremulous 
lilies, 

32 



250 TRANSLATIONS. 

Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the diffident 

maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on 

the pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the 

beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but 

the old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines 

eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips 

unpolluted. 
Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as they named 

the Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there 

among them. 
And to the children explained he the holy, the highest, in 

few words, 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple; 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 
Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Spring-tide 

approaches. 
Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the radiant 

sunshine. 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected 

blossom 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 25) 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the 
breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and 
mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at each well- 
worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and straightway 
transfigured 

(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 

Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as 
Judgment 

Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earth- 
ward descending. 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him were 
transparent. 

Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder 
afar off". 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he 
questioned. 

"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles 

delivered. 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while 

still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 



252 TRANSLATIONS. 

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant 

splendor 
Rains from the heaven downward ; — to-day on the threshold 

of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election. 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence. 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, before ye 

make answer! 
Think not, think not with guile to deceive the questioning 

Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multitude hears you. 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and 

holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting 

beside him 
Grave your confession, in letters of fire, upon tablets eternal. 
Thus then, — believe ye in God, in the Father who this world 

created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are 

united ? 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother? 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 253 

Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 

Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to 
suffer, 

Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in 
uprightness ? 

Will ye promise me this before God and man?" — With a 
clear voice 

Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly- 
breathing 

Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow 
of the Teacher 

Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake on in accents 
more gentle, 

Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven 
be ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and 

• sisters! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ! Of such is the kingdom 

of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven onn 

father. 
Ruling them as his own household, — forgiving in turn and 

chastising. 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 
Blessed are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue 

Y 



254 TRANSLATIONS. 

Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on high is 
descended. 

Strong as a man and pure as a chikl, is the sum of the doctrine, 

Which the Godlike delivered, and on the cross suffered and 
died for. 

! as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 

Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill 
valley, 

! how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn 
backward 

Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judg- 
ment 

Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, 

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven. 

Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of 
heaven ! 

Seventy years have I lived already ; the father eternal 

Gave to me gladness and care ; but the loveliest hours of 
existence. 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly 
known them, 

Known them all, all again; — they were my childhood's ac- 
quaintance. 

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of 
existence, 

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride 
of man's childhood. 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 255 

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the 

blessed, 
Beautifid, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roaring billows 
Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is 

sleeping. 
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth 
Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful and 

humble, 
Follows so long as she may her friend ; do not reject her, 
For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the 

heavens. — 
Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly flyeth incessant 
'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 
Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 
Tufjs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flames ever 

O ' DO 

upward. 
Still he recalls with emotion his father's manifold mansions. 
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more 

freshly the flowers. 
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged 

angels. 
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick 

for heaven 
Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's longings are worship ; 
Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is 

entreaty. 



256 TRANSLATIONS. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the grave- 
yard,— 
Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrowing children 
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and con- 
soles them. 
Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us. 
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 
Kneels down before the Eternal's throne ; and, with hands 

interfolded. 
Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from 

Heaven ? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has not received } 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the world he 

created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his 

glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of mid- 
night, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts 

them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the judge is 
terrific. 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 257 

Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in 
his anger 

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roe- 
buck. 

Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful avenger, 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in the earth- 
quake, 

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering 
breezes. 

Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; worlds without 
number 

Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for this pur- 
pose only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his 
spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of 
heaven. 

Quench, quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your 
being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother 

Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that you may 
be happy 

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in 
the death-hour 

Solemnized Love is triumph; the sacrifice then was com- 
pleted. 

33 t2 



258 TKANSLATIONS. 

Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, di 
viding 

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres 
rising 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 

Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma, — 
Atonement! 

Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atone- 
ment. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father ; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but 
affection ; 

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is 
willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise 
thy brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his fore- 
head ? 

Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate 
then thy brother ? 

Hateth he thee, forgive! For 't is sweet to stammer one 
letter 

Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness' 



Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns 

round his temples ? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost 

thou know him? 
Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, 
Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among 

mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands 

waiting, 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense. — Hope, the 

befriending. 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, 

and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and 

beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of 

shadows ! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 
Having naught else beside Hope. Then praise we our Father 

in heaven. 
Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been 

illumined, 



260 TRANSLATIONS. 

Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living as- 
surance. 
Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection. 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in 
marble. 

Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the 
Prophet's, 

For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foun- 
dation 

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem 
sinketh 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures ma- 
jestic. 

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her 
homestead. 

Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 

Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an 
offspring. 

Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more than 

Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate spring-tide. 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear wit- 
ness 

Not what they seemed, — but what they were only. Blessed 
is he who 

Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until 
death's hand 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 261 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does death e'er 

alarm you ? 
Death is the brother of Love, and twin-brother is he, and is 

only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fadino- 
Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the arms of 

affection. 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its 

father. 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his pinions. 
Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear 

not before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face to face 

standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic. 
Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all trans- 
figured. 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an 

anthem. 
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by 

angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall 

gather, 
Never forgets he the weary; — then welcome, ye loved ones, 

hereafter ! 



202 TRANSLATIONS. 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the 

promise, 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye 

heed not ; 
Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have pledged you to 

heaven. 
God of the Universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love ever- 
lasting, 
Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to 

thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, 
Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like 

a father. 
May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of 

salvation, 
Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; again may they know me, 
Fall on their teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place 

them. 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming 

with gladness, 
Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast 

given me !" 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck 
of the old man 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's 
enclosure. 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 263 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and 

softly 
With him the children read ; at the close, with tremulous 

accents. 
Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for the day ; the following 

Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's Holy Supper. 
Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent 

and laid his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; while 

thoughts high and holy 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with 

• wonderful brightness. 
" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the 

grave-yard ! 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely. 
Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is 

accomplished. 
Warm is the heart ; — I will so ! for to-day grows the harvest 

of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now ; for what failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement ? 
What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you 

often. 



364 TRANSLATIONS. 



Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 
Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and 

transgressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in 

the beginning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown 

o'er the 
Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in the Heart the 

Atonement. 
Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite likewise. 
See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 
Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions. 
Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 
Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in oui 

bosoms 
Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels, 
Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp's 

strings, 
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of 

Atonement, 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with 

eyes all resplendent, 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'er- 

comes her. 
Downward to earth he came and transfigured, thence re- 
ascended. 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 265 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the 
Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atont 
ment. 

Therefore with reverence receive this day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The light ever- 
lasting 

Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the eye that has 
vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 

Lietli forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone of amend- 
ment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and re- 
moves all 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide 
extended, 

Penitence weeping and praying ; the Will that is tried, and 
whose gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by 
Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's 
wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his 
bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, 

And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and 
drinketh 

34 Z 



2G6 TRANSLATIONS. 

Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly 
Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atone- 
ment?" 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the 
children 

Yes! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due 
supplications, 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and 
anthem ; 

! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon us ! 

Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his 
eyelids. 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mys- 
tical symbols. 

O ! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of 
mid-day, 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the 
churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the 
graves 'gan to shiver. 

But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold mem- 
bers. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, 
and above it 



CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 267 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; there saw 
they 

Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Re- 
deemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels 
from gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of 
purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their 

hearts and their faces. 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full 

sorely. 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them 

pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full 

of blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 



268 TRANSLATIONS, 



11. JDanisl). 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 



FROM JOHANNES EVALD. 



King Christian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
(I Ply !" shouted they, " fly he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The stroke ?" 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar. 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more. 
And smote upon the foe full sore. 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

"Now is the hour!" 
u Fly" shouted they, "for shelter fly!" 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power .^" 



KING CHRISTIAN. 269 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders TordenskioP, 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly ! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might I 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight. 
Goes to meet danger with despite. 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms. 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! 



z2 



270 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 



[The following strange and somewhat mystic ballad is from Nyerup 
and Rahbek's Danslce Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the 
first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of 
Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and 
Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved 
in the translation.] 



Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the man 

A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hill-side 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 271 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 
And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 

It made Sir Oluf s heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm, 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 

If he were come from heaven down ; 
"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, 

"So will I yield me unto thee." 

" I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me bedight." 

"Art thou a Knight elected. 
And have three Maidens thee bedight ; 



273 TRANSLATIONS. 

So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens' honor !" 

The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 
They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



T H E G R A V E. 273 



III. ^nglo-Sa^on. 



THE GRAVE. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born, 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

.Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low. 
The side-ways unhigh. 
35 



274 TRANSLATIONS. 

The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh, 
So thou shalt in mould. 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend. 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee 
And descend after thee, 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 275 



IV. (jjcnnan. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. 

There sat one day in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups. 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

But when the maid departed, 
A Swabian raised his hand. 

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 
"Long lire the Swabian land! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 



276 TRANSLATIONS. 

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing, — 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

"I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

<' The goodliest land on all this earth, 
It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 
As fingers on this hand !" 

"Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon!" 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
"If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

"There the tailor blows the flute. 
And the cobler blows the horn. 
And the miner blows the bugle, 
Over mountain gorge and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand. 

And said, " Ye may no more contend,- 
There lies the happiest land !" 



THE WAVE. tgn 



THE WAVE. 



FHOM TIEDGE. 



"Whither, thou turbid wave ? 
Whither, with so much haste. 
As if a thief wert thou ?" 

"I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust ; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity. 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



2 A 



273 


TRANSLATIONS. 






THE DEAD. 


' 




PROM KLOPSTOCK. 






How they so softly rest, 






All, all the holy dead, 






Unto whose dwelling-place 






Now doth my soul draw near ■ 






How they so softly rest. 






All in their silent graves. 






Deep to corruption 






Slowly down-sinking ! 






And they no longer weep, 






Here, where complaint is still ! 






And they no longer feel, 






Here, where all gladness flies ! 






And, by the cypresses 






Softly o'ershadowed. 






Until the Ang^el 

a 






Calls them, they slumber! 





THE BIRD AND THE SHIP, 279 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 



FROM MULLER. 



" The rivers rush into the sea, 
By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 

" The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play ; 
And every thing that can sing and fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, 
With thy fluttering golden band?" — 

" I greet thee, little bird I To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

"Full and swollen is every sail; 
I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale. 
And it will not let me stand still. 



280 TRANSLATIONS. 

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall. 
For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all." — 

"I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

"High over the sails, high over the mast. 
Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 
God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 
And the golden fields of the sun. 

" Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life long, 
Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER] 281 



WHITHER? 

FROM MULLER. 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward, 
All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther. 
And ever the brook beside ; 

And ever fresher murmured, 
And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going .^ 
Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 
Murmured my senses away. 
36 2 A 2 



282 TRANSLATIONS. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



BEWARE! 283 



BEWARE! 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is foolinff thee ! 



284 TRANSLATIONS. 



She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONGOFTHEBELL. 285 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully ; 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings. 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 



286 TRANSLATIONS. 



God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking. 
Thou alone canst raise it, 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 287 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



paoM VHLAim. 



" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea ? 
Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 

"And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening's crimson glow.'"* 

"Well have I seen that castle, 
That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 
And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and the waves of ocean. 
Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ?" 



288 TRANSLATIONS. 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail. 
And tears came to mine eye." 

"And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 
And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride } 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there } 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair .'"' 

'< Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side !" 



THE BLACK KNIGHT, 289 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 



PROM UHLAKD. 



'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness. 
When woods and fields put off all sadness, 

Thus began the King and spake ; 
"So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the cavaliers. 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

« Sir Knight ! your name and scutcheon, say !" 
"Should I speak it here. 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 
I 'm a Prince of mighty sway !" 
37 2B 



590 TRANSLATIONS. 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the castle 'gan to rock. 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 
Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark. 
Danced a measure weird and dark. 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame. 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined. 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 



T H E B L A C K K N I G H T. 291 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took ; 

" Golden wine will make you whole !" 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank ; 

"0 that draught was very cool!" 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly. 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray, 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father !" 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast ; 

"Roses in the spring I gather!" 



292 TRANSLATIONS. 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 



FROM SALIS. 



Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, thither, 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand. 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Land ! Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. 293 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 



FROM UHLAND. 



[The tradition, upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards 
of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the 
possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumber- 
land; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] 



Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ! 
He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
"Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" 

The butler hears the words with pain. 
The house's oldest seneschal. 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord ; "This glass to praise, 
Fill with red wine from Portugal !" 

2 B 2 



294 TRANSLATIONS. 

The gray-beard with trembling harxd obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, 
"This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my Sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it ; If this glass doth Jail, 
Farewell then, Luck of Edenhall ! 

" 'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!" 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

" For its keeper takes a race of might, 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
It has lasted longer than is right ; 
Klins: ! klano; ! — with a harder blow than all 
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 295 



As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all. 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall. 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone. 
The gray-beard in the desert hall. 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

" The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall !" 



296 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 



FROM PFIZER. 



A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
I -wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 



_J 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 097 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair, — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold. 

Pale grows the evening-red ; 
And when the dark lock I behold, 

I wish that I were dead. 



38 



298 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDHAL DOOR. 



FROM JULIUS MOSEN. 



Forms of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them, 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wund, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings. 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike. 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 

0, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms,- 
Up to heaven's door would bear, 

Calling, even in storm and tempest. 
Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 099 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 



FROM JULIUS MOSEN. 



On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken. 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A poor bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease. 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy-rood!" 



300 TRANSLATIONS. 



And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered quite with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. 301 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

HEMLOCK tree ! hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy 
branches ' 
Green not alone in summer tnne, 
But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
hemlock tree ! hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy 
branches ! 

maiden fair ! maiden fair ! how faithless is thy 
bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity. 
And leave me in adversity! 
maiden fair! maiden fair! how faithless is thy 
bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine 
example ! 
So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine 
example ! 

2C 



802 TRANSLATIONS. 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy 
falsehood ! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy 
falsehood ! 



ANNIE OFTHARAW. 303 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 



FROM SIMON DACH. 



Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good. 
Thou, my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain. 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. 



304 TRANSLATIONS. 

Shouldst thou be lorn from me to wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows. 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun. 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed. 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand. 

Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love. 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 
I am king of the household, — thou art its queen. 

It is this, my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest. 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 305 



V. Spanlsl). 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

LET the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past,— 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps. 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright. 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

39 2 c 2 



306 TRANSLATIONS. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that's told. 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray. 
Thither the brook pursues its way. 
And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of songr. 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 307 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

The Eternal Truth, — the Good and Wise, — 

To Him I cry. 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 
So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place. 
In life we run the onward race. 
And reach the goal ; 
When, in the mansions of the blest. 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought. 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high. 

For which we wait. 



308 TRANSLATIONS. 

Yes, — the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth. 
The shapes we chase. 
Amid a world of treachery ! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye. 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, — chances strange. 

Disastrous accidents, and change. 

That come to all ; 

Even in the most exalted state, 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow. 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 309 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life's first stage ; 
These shall become a heavy weight. 
When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame. 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust. 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust. 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain. 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride. 

With what untimely speed they glide, 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they, 

Of fickle heart. 



310 TRANSLATIONS. 



These gifts in Fortune's hands are found ; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, — 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb. 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task. 
What are they, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase. 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall .'' 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 311 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, — but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career. 
But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, — 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power ! 
W^hat ardor show. 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong. 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate. 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 



312 TRANSLATIONS. 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, — 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, — 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away. 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high emprise, 

In battle done ? 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. ;n3 



Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding plume, — 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green. 
That deck the tomb ? 

Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame. 
Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

The dancers wore ? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
0, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 

His throne beside ! 

40 2D 



314 TRANSLATIONS. 



But ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, — the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
In rich array, — 

Where shall we seek tliera now? Alas! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass. 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 315 

But he was mortal, and the breath 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Constable, — the true 
And gallant Master, — whom \ve knew 
Most loved of all, — 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride ; 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, — 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care. 

His hamlets green, and cities fair. 

His mighty power, — 

What were they all but grief and shame. 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity. 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 



316 TRANSLATIONS. 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, w^hich, glaring at its height. 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame. 
And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield,— 
All these, Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms. 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, — 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed, — 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 



C O P L A S D E M A N R I Q U E. 317 

And covered trench, secure and deep, — 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

Death, from thee. 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath. 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good. 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

2d 2 



318 TRANSLATIONS. 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade, 
To whom all hearts their homage paid. 
As Virtue's son, — 

Roderic Manrique, — he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, — 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung } 

The name, that dwells on every tongue. 

No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 319 

What prudence with the old and wise ! 

What grace in youthful gayeties ! 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

Ana the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, — his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause ; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 



320 '^' 1^ -^ '^ ^ ^' -^ '1' I ^^ ^' *• 

la tented field luul bloody iVay, 
An Alexaiuler's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The laiih of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The tervent love Camllhis bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, — and, in their fall, 

Ciiv and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon tlie hard-fought battle-ground. 
Brave steeds and g~allant ridei-s found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's liand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained. 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour. 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 



C P L A S D E M A N R I Q U E. 321 

After high deeds, not left untold, 

In the stern warfare, which of old 

'T was his to share, 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 

And fairer regions than before 

His guerdon were. 

These are tiie records, half effaced, 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry, — 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 

Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 

And cruel power ; 

But, by fierce battle and blockade. 

Soon his own banner was displayed 

From every tower. 
41 



322 TRANSLATIONS. 

By the tried valor of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arras deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe. 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valor strong, . 

That neither history nor song 

Can count them all ; 

Then, on Ocaiia's castled rock, 

Death at his portal came to knock, 

With sudden call, — 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armour for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 323 

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 
So prodigal of health and life, 
For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 

« Think not the struggle that draws neai 
Too terrible for man, — nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

" A life of honor and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, — 
'T is but a name ; 
And yet its glory far exceeds 
That base and sensual life, which leads 
To want and shame. 

« The eternal life, beyond the sky. 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 



324 TRANSLATIONS. 

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 
His prayers and tears ; 
And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O'er all the land. 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length. 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 

"Cheered onward by this promise sure. 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess. 
Depart, — thy hope is certainty ;— 
The third — the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess." 

" Death, no more, no more delay ! 
My spirit longs to flee away, 
And be at rest ; — 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, — 
I bow to the divine decree, 
To God's behest. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 325 

"My soul is ready to depart, 
No thought rebels, the obedient heart 
Breathes forth no sigh ; 
The wish on earth to linger still 
Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will 
That we shall die. 

" Thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

"And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear. 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
0, pardon me!" 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind, — 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 

So soft and kind, — 

2E 



His soul to Him who gave it rose ; 

God lead it to its long repose. 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 327 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 



PROM LOPE DE VEGA. 



Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 

Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, — 

That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, 

On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 

Hear, Shepherd ! — thou who for thy flock art dying, 

0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 

0, wait! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 

Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see, 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me 1 



328 TEANSLATIONS. 



TO-MORROW. 



mOM LOPE EE TEGA. 



Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 

Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate. 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 

O strange delusion ! — that I did not greet 

Thy blest approach, and 0, to Heaven how lost, 

If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 

How he persists to knock and wait for thee !" 

And, ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 

" To-morrow we will open," I replied, 

And when the morrow came I answered still, "To-morrow!" 



THE NATIVE LAND. 329 



THE NATIVE LAND. 



FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDAXA. 



Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 

Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 

Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 

Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 

Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 

But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence 

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 

A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 

Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way. 

That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 



42 2s 2 



330 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

PROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

Lord ! that seest, from yon starry height, 

Centred in one the future and the past, 

Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 

The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given, 

To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays ; 

Yet, in the hoary winter of my days. 

For ever green shall be my trust in heaven. 

Celestial King ! let thy presence pass 

Before my spirit, and an image fair 

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 

And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



T H E B R K. 331 



THE BROOK. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 

The soul of April, unto whom are born 

The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 

Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 

The lap of earth with gold and silver teems. 

To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 

Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count ! 

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current ! 

sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount ! 



332 TRANSLATIONS. 



VI. JrcncI). 



SPRING. 



FROM CHARLES D'ORLEANS. — XV. CENTURY. 



Gentle Spring! — in sunshine clad, 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For winter maketh the light heart sad, 

And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train. 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old. 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold. 

We must cower over the embers low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 



SPRING. 333 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky- 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ! 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud. 

And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly. 

Who has toiled for nought both late and early, 

Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 



334 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee ! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow. 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! — he but slept, — I breathe again ; — 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! 

! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 335 



VII. Italian. 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morning, 
Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it! — 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath. 

Little by little, there came forth another. 



336 TRANSLATIONS. 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot, 

He cried aloud ; " Quick, quick, and bow the knee! 
Behold the angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

" See how he scorns all human arguments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 

"See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions. 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" 

And then, as nearer, and more near us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence. 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed nought thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 337 

" In exitu Israel out of Egypt !" 
Thus sang they all together in one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore. 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 

43 2F 



338 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

FROM DANTE. PUKGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank. 

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly. 

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. 

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze. 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that side 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 339 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
When iEolus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 

Could see no more the place where I had entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 
Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, 
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid are. 

Would seem to have within themselves some mixture. 

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal. 

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current. 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



340 TRANSLATIONS. 



BEATKICE. 



FKOM CAKTE. FVHGATORIO, XXX. XXXI. 



Even as the Blessed, in the new covenant, 
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 

Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying; ^' Benedidus qui venis,^^ 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
i^Manibus o date lilia plenis.^^ 

I once beheld, at the approach of day, 
The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed. 
So that, by temperate influence of vapors. 
The eye sustained his aspect for long while ; 



BEATRICE. 341 



Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 
Which from those hands angelic were tlirown up, 
And down descended inside and without, 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil. 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colors of the livins flame. 



Even as the snow, amons the living: rafters 

Upon the back of Italy, congeals. 

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, 

And then, dissolving, filters through itself, 
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a fire, 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 
Before the song of those who chime for ever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
" wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him ?" 

2f 2 



342 TRANSLATIONS. 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish. 
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. 



Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 
Forced such a feeble " Yes !" out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged. 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow. 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 

So I gave way under this heavy burden. 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs. 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



44 



EAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane. 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide. 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

345 



346 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighbouring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets. 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 347 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these. 
The Poet sees ! 
He can behold 
Aquarius old 



348 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Walking the fenceless fields of air; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled, 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold. 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound. 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 349 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



2G 



350 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending, 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead ; 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows. 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences, 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows. 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 351 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing. 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



353 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 

VoGELWEiD, the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg-Minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures. 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily, on his place of rest. 

Saying — " From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song ; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed — 

And, fulfilling his desire. 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 353 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 

In foul weather and in fair — 
Day by day, in vaster numbers, 

Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree, whose heavy branches 

Overshadowed all the place — 
On the pavement — on the tombstone — 

On the poet's sculptured face — 

On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door — 
They renewed the War of Wartburg, 

Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols. 

Sang their lauds on every side ; 
And the name their voices uttered. 

Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, " Why this waste of food? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests, 
45 2 G 2 



354 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

When the Minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant. 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir ! 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones; 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast Cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied, 

Still the birds repeat the legend. 
And the name of Vogelweid. 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 355 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time, 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, witn all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight. 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 
I saw with its celestial keys. 
Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 
The Samian's great ^olian lyre. 
Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not only could I see, but hear, 



356 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 
Frcnn Dian's circle light and near, 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard of snows. 
Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes. 
And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 



Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march. 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one. 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star. 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The Pfolden radiance of its hair. 



The moon was pallid, but not faint. 
Yet beautiful as some fair saint. 



THE OCCULT A TION OF ORION. 357 

Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, w^ith silent pace. 
And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 
She reached the station of Orion. 
Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 
And suddenly from his outstretched arm 
Down fell the red skin of the lion 
Into the river at his feet. 
His mighty club no longer beat 
The forehead of the bull ; but he 
Reeled as of yore beside the sea. 
When, blinded by CEnopion, 
He sought the blacksmith at his forge. 
And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 
Then, through the silence overhead. 
An angel with a trumpet said, 
" For evermore, for evermore, 
The reign of violence is o'er!" 



358 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

And, like an instrument that flings 
Its music on another's strings, 
The trumpet of the angel cast 
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 
And on from sphere to sphere the words 
Reechoed down the burning chords, — 
«' For evermore, for evermore. 
The reign of violence is o'er!" 



T H E B R I D G E. 359 



THE BRIDGE. 



I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me. 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, 
The blaze of the flaming furnace 

Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay. 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 



360 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o'er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, 0, how often. 
In the days that had gone by, 

[ had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, 0, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless. 
And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me ; 
It is buried in the sea. 



T H E B R I D G E. 3G1 



And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over rae. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows. 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear. 
As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 
46 2H 



363 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



TO THE DKIVING CLOUD. 



Gloomy and dark art thou, chief of the mighty Omawhaws; 
Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast 

taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their foot- 
prints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the 
footprints ? 

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green 

turf of the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the 

sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost 

challenge 
Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these 

pavements. 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden 

millions 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 363 

Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that 
they, too, 

Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the 
Wabash! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the 
maple 

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their 
branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk- 
horn. 

Or by the roar of the Running- Water, or where the Omawhaw 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave 
of the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous 

deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the 

thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man } 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the 

Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's 



364 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp- 
fires 
Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of 

the daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous 

horse-race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Ca- 

manches! 
Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast 

of the east- wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams ! 



CARILLON. 305 



CARILLON. 



In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended. 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
Changing like a poet's rhymes. 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger. 
When the wrangling bells had ended 
Slowly struck the clock eleven. 
And, from out the silent heaven. 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 

2u2 



366 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers. 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies. 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling. 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 



CARILLON. 367 



On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy eai 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass. 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 



Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life. 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife. 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village, ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 



Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



T A C H I L D. 369 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles. 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate. 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 

Thou shakest in thy little hand 

The coral rattle with its silver bells, 

Making a merry tune ! 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 

That coral grew, by slow degrees, 

Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
47 



370 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Dashed it on Coromanders sand! 

Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 

Or steep Potosi's mountain pines ! 

And thus for thee, little child. 

Through many a danger and escape, 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee, in foreign lands remote. 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime. 

The Indian peasant, chasing the mid goat, 

Himself as swift and wild. 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of w-hose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid. 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 
Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 
And, at the sound. 
Thou turnest round 



T O A C H I L D. 371 



With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles 

No more the painted tiles. 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor. 

That won thy little, beating heart before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart. 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 



Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 



372 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread : 
Yes, w^ithin this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee .'' 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty. 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play. 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree. 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks. 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants. 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks. 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents. 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 



TO A CHILD. 373 



Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks. 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree. 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest. 
From which the laughing birds have taken ^ving, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream. 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep. 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

child ! new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed. 
Like a celestial benison ! 

21 



374 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Here at the portal thou dost stand, 

And with thy httle hand 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future's undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear. 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear; 

As upon subterranean streams. 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark 

Laden with flickering fire. 

And watch its swift-receding beams. 

Until at length they disappear. 

And in the distant dark expire. 



By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light, 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 



TO A CHILD. 375 



And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught. 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain. 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour. 
When most afflicted and oppressed. 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the laborer's side ; 
With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
Of the great army of the poor. 
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 



376 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 
Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
The wisdom early to discern 
True beauty in utility ; 
As great Pythagoras of yore, 
Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 
And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
The anvils with a different note. 
Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
Vibrant on every iron tongue. 
The secret of the sounding wire. 
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 377 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee. 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 

There are marks of age. 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin. 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the alehouse. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 

Scattered from hilarious goblets, 

As these leaves with the libations 

Of Olympus. 

48 2i2 



378 ADDITIONALPOEMS. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic,— 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards 
Who, in solitary chambers. 
And with hearts by passion wasted, 
Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sans: these ditties. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 379 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ; — 
Suddenly the EngUsh cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation. 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



380 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



DRINKING SONG. 



INSCRIPTION FOB AN ANTIQUE PITCHEK. 



Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken. 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 



D R I N K I N G S N G. 381 



Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations. 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigour. 
Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigour, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels. 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils. 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains. 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 



382 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic salUes. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 383 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces 

deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : " Toujours ! jamais ! 

Jamais ! toujours !" 

JAcauEs Bridaine. 



Somewhat back jfrom the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak. 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
" For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 



384 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall. 
Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
« For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
" For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
" For ever — never! 
Never — for ever!' 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 385 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
precious hours ! golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
" For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below. 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
" For ever — never ! 
Never — for ever!" 

All are scattered now and fled. 

Some are married, some are dead ; 

And w^hen I ask, with throbs of pain, 

" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?" 

As in the days long since gone by. 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

" For ever — never ! 

Never — for ever!" 
49 2K 



386 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Never here, for ever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care. 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
For ever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
"For ever — never! 
Never — for ever !" 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 3S7 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I SHOT an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a fiiend. 



388 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 

The evening star, the star of love and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines. 

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus. 

As that fair planet in the sky above. 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night. 

And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



A U T U M N. 389 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain ! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended ; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! 



2k2 



390 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the reahns of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes. 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 

What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, wdth pallid cheeks, 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese. 

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks. 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease ; 

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace !" 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 391 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAS OF HEIXRICH HEINE. 

The sea hath its pearls, 
The heaven hath its stars ; 

But my heart, my heart, 
My heart hath its \o\e. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart. 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
Are melting away with love ! 



392 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VOS LOGAU. SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

MONEY. 

Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 



THE BEST MEDICINES. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 



SIN. 



Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 393 



POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is ; 
For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees. 



LAW OF LIFE. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbour honestly. 
Die I, so die L 



CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines 

three 
Are extant ; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. 



THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be 
ground. 

50 



394 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it 

bespoke ; 
But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the 

smoke. 



ART AND TACT. 



Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 



RETRIBUTION. 

Though tlie mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind 

exceeding small ; 
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness 

grinds he all. 



TRUTH. 



When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's 

fire, 
Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth silences the 

liar. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 395 

RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine sound not well in strangers' 

ears, 
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with 

theirs ; 
For so long as words, like mortals, call a father-land their 

own, 
They will be most highly valued where they are best and 

longest known. 



:390 



CURFEW. 



CURFEW. 

I. 

Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 397 



II. 



The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 
Sleep and obUvion 

Reign over all. 



2L 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



Page 49. Skoal.' to the Northland! skoal! 

In Scandinavia skoal is the customary salutation when drinking 
a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, 
in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 

Page 79. Ml the Foresters of Flanders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of 

Flanders, appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, 

in the days of Clotaire the Second, was the first of them ; and 

Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away the fair Judith, daughter 

of Charles the Bald, from the French court, and married her 

in Bruges, was the last. After him, the title of Forester wvcs 

changed to that of Count. Philippe d' Alsace, Guy de Dam- 

pierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the order of time, 

were therefore rather Counts than Foresters. PhiHppe went 

twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague 

at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly after the capture of the city by the 

Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the prison of Com- 

pifegne. Louis de Crecy was son and successor of Robert de 

Bethune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with 

the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, at the age of eleven 

years, Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 
51 2 L 2 401 



402 NOTES. 



Page 79. Stately dames, like queens attended. 

When- Philippe-le-Bel, King of France, visited Flanders with 
his queen, she was so astonished at the magnificence of the 
dames of Bruges, that she exclaimed : " Je croyais etre seule 
reine ici, mais il parait que ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent 
dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car leurs femmes sont 
habillees comme des princesses et des reines." 

"When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres went 
to Paris to pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were re- 
ceived with great pomp and distinction ; but, being invited to a 
festival, they observed that their seats at table were not furnished 
with cushions ; whereupon, to make known their displeasure at 
this want of regard to their dignity, they folded their richly em- 
broidered cloaks and seated themselves upon them. On rising 
from table, they left their cloaks behind them, and, being informed 
of their apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgo- 
master of Bruges, rephed : " We Flemings are not in the habit 
of carrj'ing awa}' our cushions after dinner." 

Pagre 79. Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Philippe de BorRGOcxE. sumamed Le Bon, espoused Isa- 
bella of Portugal, on the 10th of Januan,-, 1-430 ; and on the 
same day instituted the famous order of the Fleece of Gold. 

Page 80. / beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Yalois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death 
of her father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the 
richest heiress of Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess 



X T E S. 403 



of Flanders, in 147T, and in the same year was married by 
proxy to the Archduke ^Maximilian. According to the custom 
of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substitute, slept 
with the princess. They were both in complete dress, separated 
by a naked sword, and attended by four armed guards. Isabella 
was adored by her subjects for her gentleness and her many 
other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and 
is the same person mentioned afterwards in the poem of Xurem- 
herg as the Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of Pfinzinff's poem 
of Teuerdank. Having been imprisoned by the revolted burghers 
of Bruges, they refused to release him, till he consented to kneel 
in the public square, and to swear on the Holy Evangelists and 
the body of Saint Donatus, that he would not take vengeance 
upon them for their rebelhon. 



Page SO. Tlie bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was 
fought under the walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July, 1302, 
between the French and the Flemings, the former commanded 
by Robert, Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guillaume de Juliers, 
and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French army was completely 
routed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and seven thou- 
sand cavalry ; among whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and 
counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hundred noble- 
men. The flower of the French nobility perished on that day ; 
to which history has given the name of the Joiirnee des Eperons 
d''Or, from the great number of golden spurs found on the field 
of battle. Seven hundred of them were hung up as a trophy 
in the church of Xotre Dame de Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers 



404 NOTES. 



of that day wore but a single spur each, these vouched to Giod 
for the Tiolent and bloody death of seven hundred of his crea- 
tures. 

Page 80. Saw thejight at Minnewater. 

Whex the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at 
Minnewater, to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to 
their city, they were attacked and routed by the citizens of 
Ghent, whose commerce would have been much injured by the 
canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a military 
company at Ghent, called the Chaperons Blancs. He had great 
sway over the turbulent populace, who, in those prosperous times 
of the city, gained an eeisy hvelihood by laboring two or three 
days in the week, and had the remaining four or fire to devote 
to public afiairs. The fight at Minnewater was followed by open 
rebellion asrainst Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and 
Protector of Bruges. His superb chateau of Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents forced tbe gates of Bruges, 
and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their head. A 
{eve davs afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of 
Xevele ; and two hundred of them perished in the church, 
which was burned by the count's orders. One of the chiefs, 
Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the belfry. From the summit 
of the tower he held forth his purse filled with gold, and begged 
for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies cried to him 
from below to save himself as best he might ; and, half suffo- 
cated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from the tower 
and perished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards esta- 
blished, and the cxaunt retired to faithful Bruges. 



X T E S. 405 



Page 80. TTie Golden Dragon's nest. 

The Gfolden Dragon, taken hoca. the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople, in one of the Cmsades, and placed on the 
belfiy of Bruges, was afterwards transported to Ghent by Philip 
van Artevelde, and still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-beU at Ghent is, " Mynen naem 
is Roland i ah ik klep is er brand, and als ik luy is er ric- 
torie in het land." My name is Roland ; when I toU there is 
fire, and when I ring there is Tictory in the land. 

Page SS. Tliat their great imperial city stretched its hand 
through every clime. 

Ax old populeir proverb of the town runs thtis : — 
'■'^Xiirnherg's Hand 
Geht durch alle Land." 
jNuremberg's hand 
Groes through erery land." 

Page 89. Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser JJaximilian' s 

praise. 

Melchior Pfixzixg was one of the most celebrated German 
poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank 
was the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and the poem was to 
the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the 
Italians. MaiimiUan is mentioned before, in the Belfry of 
Bruges. See note on page 375. 



406 NOTES. 



Page 89. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his 
holy dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his 
name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is 
of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who 
labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one 
hundred figures, among Avhich those of the Twelve Apostles are 
conspicuous for size and beauty. 



Page 89. In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 
sculpture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by 
the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture 
in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It 
stands in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colors. 



Page 90. Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original 
corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of 
Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the 
most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most vo- 
luminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century ; and left 
behind him thirty-four foho volumes of manuscript, containing 
two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred 
comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. 



NOTES. 407 



Page 91. ^s in Mam Fuschman's so7ig. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, 
describes him as he appeared in a vision : — 



" An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove-like. 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book. 
Beautiful v^^ith golden clasps." 



Page 124. .^s Lope says. 

" La colera 
de un Espanol sentado no se templa, 
si no le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis." 

Lope de Vega. 



Page 129. Abernuncio Satanas. 

"DiGO, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo que tengo dicho, que 
de los azotes abernuncio. Abrenuncio habeis de decir, Sancho, 
y no como decis, dijo el Duque." — Don Quixote, Part II., 

C. XXXV. 



408 NOTES. 



Page 145. Fray Carrillo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epigram. 
" Siempre, Fray Carrillo, estas 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas !" 

Bbhl de Faber. Floresfa, No. 611. 



Page 145. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 
" ' Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco !' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco — 
' V 6 una bella ragazzina 
Che si vuole confessar !' 
Fatle 1' entrare, fatte 1' entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare." 

Kopisch. Volksthiimliche Poesien aus alien 
Mundarten Italiens und seiner Inseln, 
p. 194. 



Page 148. ^ve! cujus calcem dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alex- 
ander Croke's Essay on the Origin, Progress, and Decline 
of Rhyming Latin Verse, ■p. 109. 



NOTES. 409 



Page 159. The Gold of the Busne. 

BusNE is the name given by the Gipsies to all who are not 
of their race. 

Page 161. Count of the Cedes. 

The Gipsies call themselves Cales. See Borrow's valuable 
and extremely interesting work, The Zincali; or an Account 
of the Gipsies in Spain. London, 1841. 

Page 166. ^sks if his money-bags would rise. 

"Y voLviENDOME a un lado, vi a un avariento, que estaba 
preguntando a otro, (que por haber sido embaJsamado, y estar 
lejos sus tripas, no hablaba porque no habian Uegado si habian 
de resucitar aquel dia todos los enterrados) i si resucitarian unos 
bolsones suyos ?" — JEl SueTio de las Calaveras. 

Page 167. And amen! said the Cid Campeador. 

A LINE from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

"Amen, dijo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 3044. 

Page 168. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante ; 

"Si che chiaro 

Per essa scenda della mente il fiume." 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; though I do not 

recollect in which of his poems. 
52 2 M 



410 I^ T E S. 



Page 170. 31ari Franca. 

A COMMON Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question 
one does not wish to answer : 

"Porque caso Mari-Franca 
cuatro leffuas de Salamanca." 



Page 171. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this color of the 
ej^e as beautiful, and celebrate it in song ; as, for example, in 
the well known Villancico : 



" i Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 



Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 

Bbhl de Faber. Floresta, No. 255. 



Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds. Piirgatorio, 
xxxi. 116. Lami says, in his .linnotazioni, " Erano i suoi occhi 
d' un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel del mare." 



Page 173. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Vengador, and Ca- 
laynos. 



NOTES, 411 



Page 174. .4// are sleeping. 
From the Spanish. BbliVs Flo rest a. No. 282. 

Page 195. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are Hkewise the songs immediately 
following, and that which commences the first scene of Act III. 



Page 219. The evil eye. 

" In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye is called Que- 
relar nasula, which simply means making sick, and which, 
according to the common superstition, is accomplished by cast- 
ing an evil look at people, especially children, who, from the 
tenderness of their constitution, are supposed to be more easily 
blighted than those of a more mature age. After receiving the 
evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few hours. 

"The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil 
eye, though the belief in it is very prevalent, especially in An- 
dalusia, amongst the lower orders. A stag's horn is considered 
a good safeguard, and on that account a small horn, tipped 
with silver, is frequently attached to the children's necks by 
means of a cord braided from the hair of a black mare's tail. 
Should the evil glance be cast, it is imagined that the horn 
receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such horns may be 
purchased in some of the silversmiths' shops at Seville." 

BoRRow's Zincali. Vol. I. ch. ix. 



412 NOTES 



Page 220. On the top of a mountain I stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow's 
Zincali; or an Account of the Gipsies in Spain. 

The Gipsy words in the same scene may be tlius inter- 
preted : 

John-Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at night-fall. 

Rastilleros, foot-pads. 

Hermit, highway-robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Commandments, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing John, to take flight. 



Page 236. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 
From the Spanish ; as is likewise the song of the Contra- 



bandista on page 238. 



NOTES. 413 



Page 269. My grave. 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder 
Wesse], a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received 
the popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thunder-shield. In child- 
hood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high rank 
before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel. 



Page 293. Coplas de Manrique. 

Don Jorge Manrique, the author of this poem, flourished in 
the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the pro- 
fession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in 
his history of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being 
present at the siege of Ucles ; and speaks of him as " a youth 
of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of 
his valor. He died young ; and was thus cut off from long 
exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the 
light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He 
was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the 
year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, 
Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in 
Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to 
Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; but, according to the poem of 
his son, in Ocafia. It was his death that called forth the poem 
upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Man- 
rique. In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge Manrique, 
in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments 

of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his 

2 M 2 



414 NOTES. 



father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exagge- 
rated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is 
solemn and beautiful ; and, in accordance with it, the style 
moves on — calm, dignified, and majestic. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No 
less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it 
have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great 
poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Val- 
depeftas, is the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. 
There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's 
pocket, after his death on the field of battle. 

" O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were hfe indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

" Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good. 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 



NOTES. 415 



Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

' Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a hngering step and slow 
Its form departs." 



Page 352. Walter von der Vogehveide. 

Walter von der Vogelweide, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the 
principal Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed 
over Heinrich von Ofterdingen in that poetic contest at the 
Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as the "War of 
Wartburg." 

Page 389. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of 
farmers. According to the German tradition, in seasons of great 
abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at 
Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and the vineyards. During his 
hfetime, he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, "to sell the eggs 
from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables 
of his gardens ; while he distributed among his people the wealth 
of the Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns." 

THE END. 
























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